


Tales Unforgotten

by crazywisdom (orphan_account)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A collection of either prompts or oneshots., F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-31 19:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10905582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crazywisdom
Summary: A collection of Clarke, Lexa or Clarke/Lexa focused oneshots -- inspired by prompts or by a strange voice in my brain.Prompts (limited) can be sent by williammarshal @ tumblr.





	1. Lone Witness

Maybe Clarke was being too easy on her.

Within the third day of Lexa being conscious enough to utter a "hello, Clar- _kkk-e_ ", Clarke had reluctantly agreed to let her out of the bedroom, because apparently, even when dosed up on Nyko's pain potion, Lexa still had the capacity to talk for Polis. And she'd pled a case of being cooped up within the Polisian tower like a chained dog with no hope of sunshine (despite the sun streaming through the window) or freedom (she'd been _shot_ ) or hope (she was _alive_ ).

Then again, Lexa had made a tempting case. So at nightfall, as Polis still thrived and swelled with music and joy and wonderful chaos, like there had been no drama with their near-dying Commander at all, Clarke and Lexa trudged down the stairs.

"I hope you realise your design of this—tower," Clarke said, as Lexa grunted with every third step, "is probably the stupidest thing ever. What if you were so tired you could barely walk, and then you had to walk five thousand billion steps just to flop on your bed?"

"Then it would make the effort worth it," Lexa said blandly. She looked decidedly pale. Clarke knew she wasn't feeling well at all, but she understood Lexa when she spoke about what essentially surmounted to cabin fever. Lexa didn't know the word for it in Old English, and Clarke hadn't given it to her. Lexa seemed to like the fact that she could somewhat effortlessly go on her tangents and speeches without wincing in pain every half a minute, so Clarke allowed the occasional soliloquy. It was nice to hear Lexa's voice on a continuous beat, instead of Clarke hearing her own every single day, talking to thin air as she hoped Lexa would wake. As her voice wavered with emotion every time the possibility of her not waking slammed into her like another one of Titus' bullets.

They made it to the bottom of the tower with relatively little fuss, their arguments futile and petty. Clarke extended her arm and Lexa, discarding her pride in the night, took it. She did not make a comment about Clarke supporting her weight, or thank her, but Clarke took the amicable silence as just that.

"Are you leading the way?" Clarke asked quietly, unnecessarily, as Lexa's feet traipsed somewhere of their own accord. They headed away from the boisterous crowd outside one of the inns, and towards the gates. Lexa smiled sideways at her.

The Polisian Guards startled at the sight. "Heda," one of them said in astonishment. He was tall, burly and fair-haired—and surely the first commoner to see their Commander after the shooting. The guard shucked his helmet off, as if the dim light was deceiving him. "You—you are well?"

"Well enough," Lexa said. Her voice was steady. "You'll talk of this night as if you were off-duty, do you understand? You were over there—" she jerked her head towards the noise they'd abandoned, "letting yourself loose with gallons of mead with your friend—" she now gestured towards the guard opposite him, whose own surprise was personified in a stunned silence.

"Of course," the guard said hoarsely. "Do we--?"

"Not _actually_ ," Lexa said sharply. Clarke nearly rolled her eyes. "Use your imagination."

"Your face is buried in an ample pair of bosoms right now, Tristan," the other guard said, as an example. Clarke and Lexa swivelled to face him, amused that he'd been so silent and then so crass. "That's what we got up to tonight."

"And the wine was sweet," said Tristan, "Just like the lady's skin."

"She fed you apples!" the other guard replied cheerily, as Lexa and Clarke decided to leave the two men to swapping their fantasies, growing lewder as they cleared the distance. "Sucked the juice from your very fingers!"

That was the last they decided to hear of it.

Tonight was crisp ( _just like the apple the guard had been describing_ , Clarke thought distastefully), the air lacking bite, though. It was pleasantly muggy; not enough for her shirt to stick to her skin, but enough so she didn't shiver. The wind was bashful, flicking at Lexa's let-down hair, but a nice, calming warm.

"The plains are always forgotten." Lexa plucked the words from the sky, breaking the silence between them. Clarke let her go on. "Polis is the base of fire and beauty and hand-made grandiose, and the walls are frightening or welcoming depending on who you are. The dug-out surrounding it is a symbol of hard muscle and sweat, and the drawbridge is standoffish yet homely. But the plains are just grass, widely uncut, tangled and uncivilised, like one side of that wall is post-coalition and this side is pre-coalition."

"I think it looks wonderful," Clarke said honestly. Lexa spoke highly of Polis but she did not hide that some of the houses crumbled with age. The sparring pits turned mushy and boggy when it rained, and busy times in the Square meant you had to pretty much punch your way through the crowd to buy a slab of meat.

Here, earth pierced through the air without a single intrusion. With the exception of them, tonight.

"Indra's gonna have my guts if you don't rest, by the way," Clarke cautioned Lexa, pretending to herself that Lexa would listen. "She specifically said _no strenuous activity_ , and then I think she cursed at me in Trigedasleng. So if you rip your stitches, I will rip you in half, and then Indra will rip me in half."

"Fine by me," Lexa said breezily, stopping their walk. "Let's rest."

Lexa seemed to enjoy catching Clarke off-guard. It was simply because Clarke was always the one catching Lexa in the brief moments of the day she didn't have her steely walls up, and she flopped down onto the grass, her back against the ground. For a moment, Clarke stared at her in disbelief, as if Lexa kom Trikru, Commander of the Coalition, had just vanished from her arm in two seconds. But then she saw the amusement and carefully restrained joy on Lexa's face as she gazed up at the stars, and decided to join her.

"I used to come here alone," Lexa said. "When I had the time, I mean. And you know, you don't realise how much you enjoy some solitude when you spend all day surrounded by masqueraded threats and terse war-room talks and tutelage and complaints and heckling. Can I ask you to do something?"

Clarke turned to face her, the long strands of grass tickling her cheek. "Sure."

"Can I ask you to imagine the noise we just escaped? Back by the inn. Back with the idiots Tristan and Hislam by the gates."

Clarke shut her eyes, thinking of ample-bosomed babes and raucous, mead-flavoured singing. She couldn't capture the essence. _I'm an artist. Sort of._ She tried to think of it that way. _Surely I can conjure up a scenario. If I can draw from memory, then I can memorise something, right? I was just by all that noise like ten minutes ago._

"No?" Lexa's voice glittered with triumph.

"No," Clarke confirmed dully. She waited for Lexa's point.

"Where this plain is cut off from civilisation and uncared for and ignored, then that is how it will be. Believe that life is within Polis, and believe that for so many years—the minute you pass from the inside to the outside, your ears unblock from the populace and clear so you can hear pointless things like crickets chirping in the night. And you are so spaced out from the lack of civilisation and the lack of people that you may interpret it as beauty."

But it was beauty—Clarke wanted to insist. It wasn't until Lexa really used that word that she would associate it with simply lying on a large patch of grass, staring up at the night skies. The new earth seemed to lack the 'pollution' of the old earth, of the old earth she'd read in the books. 'Pollution' was a word that meant 'blocking the stars', so Clarke had been told in class. And because the new earth lacked the arsenal of machinery the old earth relied on so heavily, the smog had thrown their hands up defeat and drifted off elsewhere. Floated itself.

"How did you feel, when you walked away from your people?" Lexa murmured. Where there was lack of civilisation, there was lack of courteous filter, too, it seemed. "When you abandoned them on your walkabout with only the name Wanheda following you, did it feel like this?"

Without Lexa's heartbeat inches from hers, and her fingers hesitantly interlocking in hers? Without the realisation that she could overcome her fury and surge for vengeance by merely engulfing herself within Polisian life? Without the lack of food and unsuccessful foraging replaced by lumps of bread and juicy, freshly-hunted game? Without twinkling eyes of innocent youth like Aden's dancing in the light as the Nightbloods playfully sparred with her during the day, the rare moments she left Lexa's unconscious side?

"Not quite." Clarke's voice was hoarse. Her solitude had been forced, but it hadn't been a tragic disaster, either. "Some nights...I guess...yeah, it was nice to go to sleep without thinking tomorrow I'd be needed by Kane or Raven or Octavia or my mom for some political bullshit. Then again, I had to sort of be a bit wary of being eaten by a giant wolf or something."

"That's quite some balance you pertained."

"Right."

"How do you feel now?"

"Relieved. Free. Like I want to smile."

"I feel like I want to see you smile."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mm-hmm. How long was it since you last smiled?"

"Too long."

"Do you want me to make you smile now?"

Clarke laughed. "How exactly are you gonna make me smile, asshole?"

Lexa's head jerked to the side so face that she nearly poked her eye out with a shard of grass. Clarke laughed louder, and her eyes slipped shut for a moment, only just catching Lexa's smirk. "Like that."

"You're an ass."

"I made you smile."

"That's something you do," Clarke conceded, and Lexa's smirk softened into a smile of her own. Clarke supposed it was all a little cliché, two young women in love smiling at each other in the blissful peace of the night, away from everyone else's mess. Then again, she was starting to appreciate why clichés were clichés: they weren't liked so fondly by everyone else for no reason.

Nothing was for no reason.

"I only wanted the stars to be my witness," Lexa began to explain—explain something—Clarke wasn't entirely too sure. Lexa could be backwards at the best of times. "Is that alright?"

"Yes?" Clarke realised a little too late that she was consenting to something she had no idea of.

Lexa remained polite anyway. She reached out slowly with her hand to cup Clarke's face, her thumb brushing idly over her cheek. Clarke supposed it was her warning signal in some way. It felt like Lexa was going to leave it at that, or that time had frozen, except Lexa's eyes were darting from Clarke's, to Clarke's hair, her forehead, her nose, her lips...

She leaned in so gently and so carefully that Clarke wondered if it was purely to prevent herself from ripping her stitches or because she was still a courteous idiot throughout. Still, Clarke closed her eyes as Lexa kissed her, feather-light like their first time. Clarke could remember Lexa's lips when they were desperate and needy and wanton; it felt like an age ago when Lexa tasted tentative and of question.

Clarke steadied Lexa by the waist, flicking her tongue over Lexa's bottom lip, and a noise escaped the wavering prison that was Lexa's throat.

"I think we're past the maybe life should be more than just surviving part, huh?" Clarke muttered against Lexa's lips as they broke apart for air, and Lexa's face split into a grin.

"Maybe," she said.

"Well, we deserve that at least, right?"

"Hm. _Maybe we do_."

Clarke would've rolled her eyes if the overwhelming sensation wasn't to pull her in for a deeper kiss, throwing careful thoughts of stitches and bullet wounds into the still, surveying wind as she kissed Lexa again, open-mouthed and with intent. Lexa returned with fervour, and Clarke never ceased to enjoy the way the most powerful individual on this entire earth cast away her iron-fist reign for Clarke's persistent lips. The way Lexa's mouth parted of Clarke's thin ask of permission felt like victory squeezing her heart, and she assumed maybe that was how Lexa felt too as she passed the chains of power and supremacy over for one moment of careless freefall. They kissed innocently, and wantonly, and teasingly; I wanted the stars to be my only witness, said the dramatic doe-eyed war-hero as she dipped her tongue into Clarke's mouth. Is that alright? The courteous facade of a shy courter whispered. Clarke moaned a little as Lexa's teeth sunk into her bottom lip, the disciplined testing of each other's restraint bashing against their self-made barricade. _Oh well. I guess if Indra wants to kill me tomorrow, I'm not actually to blame. Not a hundred percent._

"I don't want to rest," Lexa panted, knocking foreheads with Clarke.

The grass tickled her cheek again. That was why Clarke smiled. "I won't let you."

"That's how this story went," Lexa affirmed, tugging Clarke by the hem of her shirt, dipping her head to pepper kisses down the side of Clarke's neck, her teeth determinedly biting down on her collarbone. Clarke tipped her head back and groaned in free pleasure as she rolled over, her hips conquering Lexa's as she tipped over so her thighs were either side of Lexa.

"I'm not gonna let you rest," Clarke whispered as she bent her head down to kiss Lexa again, grinning into it. She felt like a teenager, frolicking in the grass.

She _was_ a fucking teenager.

"The stars are my only witness," Lexa teased, and pulled her down.

The stars did not speak of what they saw that night.


	2. Lights Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aden's always been Lexa's sparring partner.

On the days his Commander’s war meeting went well, she was courteously chipper in their sparring sessions. Aden would always get a greeting and a fond ruffle of his increasingly messy hair. Aden knew the other boys and girls whispered behind his back of favouritism but he found he didn’t quite care. His _Heda_ had chosen him to spar, and quite often he would be nicknamed ‘The Commander’s Second'—except he was clearly not.

If anything, Titus enforced that. Commanders did not take seconds—but Lexa liked to smirk at him and go against Titus’ iron-strong teachings anyway.

Today, Lexa’s meeting with the Southern clans had been satisfactory to say the least. They picked up their weapons in silence—lightly-carved sticks from the finest wood within the Trikru territory.

“Do you see how it falls just below your eye?” Lexa said, nearly jabbing Aden’s eye out. “That is when you should get your hair cut. Sometimes it gets in the way.”

“My mother says I look better with longer hair,” Aden replied.

“Your mother is not acquainted with the ways of sparring.”

They laughed at that, and then they sparred. One of the many, many things Aden admired about Lexa was her refusal to give Aden any opportunity to better her. Lexa fought fairly, and Aden suspected at not even half her capacity—but she would never just roll over on one side like some cuddly bear and allow for all the children to attack her good-naturedly. Lexa was harsh and demanding, sparring for hours and bruising and causing nosebleeds and scratches until Aden was bent over, panting and gulping in breath. If he forgot to surrender, Lexa would continually smack him down whenever he moved until he tapped out.

“Don’t forget the importance of that,” Lexa had scolded him, “otherwise your opponent will be well within their rights to keep attacking you. Tap out if you must. There is no shame in it.”

It came as no surprise to anyone, then, that Aden continually tapped out whenever Lexa bettered him. He was aware that Lexa would not hesitate in beating the living daylights out of him if he did not. And Aden was a swift learner. He picked up in some of Lexa’s defining moves, though his agility did not match hers and neither did his cunning. He got better. He tracked his progress in the seconds it took for her to knock him down—and along the weeks, when the seconds grew to minutes, he felt his heart swell in pride.

He could see it in Lexa’s eyes too. “Were you trained?” Lexa asked conversationally as Aden grunted to keep up with her lightning pace, shifting so that his feet were almost trained to dance around the pits. “As a fighter, I mean?”

“No— _argh_ —” Aden ducked from a wayward swing of the log from Lexa, retreating as they circled each other. Lexa smiled, pleased. “My mother reads fortunes in the Square. My father passed.”

“I’m sorry to hear of it.”

“They trust her,” Aden said. Lexa made no move to attack. “I suppose it must be legend: if a boy or a girl bleeds black, then their parents must speak the truth.”

Lexa dug one end of the log into the boggy marsh. “What do you think?”

Aden shrugged. “We must eat somehow.”

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t call for you.”

“I know, Commander, but I thought—as I usually spar with you—”

“I specifically didn’t call for you!” Lexa reprimanded him. Today was different. The sun had disappeared and instead, the clouds rewarded them with harsh, blunt rain. It soaked through Aden’s tunic and he thanked the spirits he _had_ finally cut his hair—for he would not be able to see a thing if his fringe still existed. “I asked for a warrior!”

It stung, because Aden knew Lexa was telling the truth. He was no warrior, and he knew that. He was not of Indra or Anya or even Titus’ calibre, but they had been suspended with questions and diplomatic meetings. Ever since the dark happenings of the Ice Nation’s declaration of war and rejection of the coalition, the sun had not dared to peek upon Polis. Aden had only heard rumours from the chef’s kitchen—who had slipped him an extra ration of pork belly—that his Commander’s lover had been executed by Queen Nia of the North.

Judging by the way Lexa roared at him to go away, wielding her log like she wanted to smash it against _something_ , Aden doubted it was far from the truth.

“You are here to spar, surely,” he called across, wobbling a little as the mud nearly twisted his ankle. “Why else would you be in the sparring pits, _Heda_?”

“There are opponents I spar with,” Lexa said, “and then there are those I am unafraid to unleash upon.”

“Why can’t I be both?”

“Because—you—” Lexa sighed heavily, staring up at the skies as the rain smattered down on her face. Exasperation tore through her body, because this boy just would not give up. “You are my student, Aden. I will not beat you.”

“You have been fair before. Remember?”

Lexa’s eyes flashed with… _something_. Aden didn’t recognise it. “I don’t want to be fair.”

Nobody else came to the sparring pits.

When his fellow Nightbloods assisted Nyko in patching up a near-unconscious Aden afterwards, he could only recall the angry way Lexa came after him, smacking down against the weakening grip on his log with her own, down, down, down, _down_ —until it flew from his hand. And then she’d twirled it in her hand, smashing it upwards against his chin so he sprawled backwards from his staggered position, his intent to get to his feet.

In her ferocity he had barely moved an inch, his boots sinking into the sparring pit that became a bog. Logs cast aside, they had moved to fisticuffs—something Aden was hugely unfamiliar with. He ducked desperately, his lungs gasping for air in the unforgiving rain as Lexa swiftly jabbed at him, catching his jaw with a heavy left hook. She took no defensive position. She only advanced as he held both his fists up, feeling woefully inadequate as she decked him in the stomach, giving him milliseconds to yell in pain before her palm went up to shove at his face, sending him sprawling backwards into the dirt.

It would not _stop_.

“In a box,” she said haggardly, advancing as Aden gingerly got to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. His entire body ached all over. “On my bed. My _bed_!”

“ _Heda_ —”

Her fist connected with his cheekbone, and his body clattered to the floor, unconscious.

 

* * *

 

The _Wanheda_ had been missing for months now, and in her absence, in her _silence_ , her legend only grew. At first she had simply been the Sky girl who had brought the Mountain down with some otherworldly force—but now she was one of the most powerful beings in all of the earth, second only to his Commander.

Aden was a few years older now, and knew better than to listen to kitchen gossip. But he could not help and admire Clarke kom Skaikru for her tenacity despite his Commander’s decision. He knew people of Polis spoke highly of his Commander but others within the coalition or others in outlying villages spoke differently. He disagreed with them.

Teachings of politics and geography and village chiefdoms and old earth history with Titus and Lexa had been most revealing and informing. He liked to think of himself, as he stared at his baby-faced reflection in the mirror, as standing on the precipice of being a man. He had not had his first appearance of stubble, but his shoulders had broadened with years of sparring with others—lads bigger than him, lads quicker than him, and the Commander herself, too.

He was among the hopeless and the curious in the crowd as Prince Roan of _Azgeda_ towed a masked prisoner into Polisian walls. Whispers said it was Clarke kom Skaikru, the _Wanheda_ , herself; Aden did not know what to think, but that kind of rumour did not sprout from nothing. He had heard Lexa and Titus converse about it once in a training session, which had ended with Titus storming from the sparring pits. Lexa had made some joke about him, and everyone had laughed, but Aden chewed on his lip and wondered if Polisian hearsay turned out to be true.

Aden was beyond relieved that afternoon when the Commander chose him to be her sparring partner yet again. It was fun, conversing with her about the day’s war meetings and how the Rock Commander’s joke sunk like a rock itself and how the Water Commander’s mead consumption was still hideous. He enjoyed gossip when it came from the Commander’s mouth itself.

Instead, she remained tight-lipped—and for the most part, unfocussed—as she parried with him. Mostly on the back-foot, Aden took advantage of his smaller size and manipulated their parries so he ended up jabbing her throat three times. Her footwork was slow, and her gaze—so often drilled into his eyes, to anticipate his every move—was everywhere. She looked over the city sometimes. She looked at the floor. She stared at some gap above Aden’s head.

Quite simply, Lexa was out-of-sorts and Aden didn’t have it in him to embarrass the Commander and point this out in front of the other Nightbloods and Aden. Instead, he tried to slow his moves down, each parry growing weaker and weaker as he thought of it like a game of checkers. Every carefully constructed sequence would be the same—and Lexa spotted it within seconds.

“No holding back,” she said absently, tapping Aden’s makeshift weapon. “Do you think you’ll be able to hold back in the trials, Aden?”

“No, Commander.”

“Then let’s train properly.”

But Lexa did not hold up her end of the promise. At the end of the day, when Aden decked her on the chin, upwards, and she reeled back in surprise—as if that had knocked some sort of responsibility back in her—the gaze she gave him was not one of danger, but one of wonderment. He could only stare back, panting heavily as she half-smiled at him, studying him closely. Titus dismissed him and he quickly gathered his items, wanting to go home to a bowl of hearty soup and a heavy lump of bread. He didn’t want—whatever this was today.

“Clarke elevates herself,” he heard Lexa say wistfully as he sped past, stopping in his tracks. He was behind the conversing duo. He hated eavesdropping, so he left quickly after that. But he ate keenly that night, knowing legends were true.

 

* * *

 

Aden moved slowly, this time with a blunt blade instead of a wooden stick. He focussed heavily on his footwork, making sure he was quiet, quick and efficient. He would be slender like the night, bold like the daylight, and most of all, he would be silent.

“A lot of the time, it’s in the footwork—in fact, I’d say it’s most of the time,” Lexa said in front of him. “It depends on how deeply you study your opponent. If I took my fight with King Roan in Nia’s vote of no confidence, it was easy to note that his foot stepped forward every time he was to lunge—which was usually his move.”

“Then one must anticipate,” Aden said.

“Yes. The fight is usually won in here—” Lexa tapped the side of his head, and Aden closed his eyes, smiling, “—first. It is rarely won out of physicality.”

“What use are muscles if you cannot wield them properly?” Aden recited, and he thought he could hear Lexa laugh. Making his Commander laugh, properly, was no mean feat—and he’d achieved it, proudly, multiple times. Maybe that was just his overactive imagination. “I saw you against Roan. I watched you every step of the way. I have never seen a recovery so magnificent. I have never seen sword-work…two of them!…so quick, so…so elegant. So beautiful.”

“And yet there were points I had to work on, then,” Lexa said. “I left my defence exposed in the hope that I would overpower him. But Roan was a powerful opponent with a much more advantageous weapon than mine.”

“I remember the way my heart sunk when he kicked you.”

“Me too.”

“I remember seeing Clarke kom Skaikru in the crowd. I thought she was going to run to you.”

“That would’ve been illegal, Aden.”

“I wish she _had_ run to you. You needed nothing to spur you into killing the Ice Queen. But in that moment, when you were alone on the ground, I wished she had to run to you to tell you that she loved you.”

“How do you–?”

“Because she loves you. She loves you, she loves you, she loves you.”

Lexa smiled softly at him and ordered him to take a defensive stance again, jerking her head so he cast his weapon aside. Instead, he raised both fists defensively, as Lexa circled him. He kept light on his toes, knowing he would have to duck and sway as Lexa swung for him.

She swung right; he ducked down. She swung left; he ducked down.

The art of a fight did not always lie with weapons—bows and arrows, spears, swords, maces—they mattered not when neither of you had a weapon to go for. When it came down to your fists, your mind and your feet mattered, as did your ability to react quickly. Once you were smacked down with a bloody nose, it was hard to stagger upright without being hit back down yet again.

Aden stared in front of him, determined eyes jabbing forwards in a serious of drills. It would coordinate his footwork with his punches; and then he’d advance to a left hook, meant for cheeks. The uppercut was meant for the chin, a blast only to be used lastly when he was surely guaranteed victory. He wasn’t convinced this style of fighting was the best for him—he was slim, and excelled at archery as well as swordwork—but Indra had insisted he had to be capable in all areas.

It was raining, much like that day Lexa had taken him out in the rain only to beat him within an inch of his life. She’d apologised the day after, staying by his bedside for three days, applying some of Nyko’s potion to his swollen eye. Aden swallowed the lump in his throat and jabbed forwards harder, sighing when Lexa jerked her head to one side and his wayward punch had missed her completely.

“Aden?” Clarke leant against the palisade, worry etched over her features. “What the hell are you doing? It’s freezing!”

“Sparring,” he called back, shouting above the pitter-patter of the rain. Lexa nodded silently in agreement, grinning at Clarke. “It’s fine!”

“Get back inside!”

“I’m fine, Clarke!”

Clarke surveyed the sight in front of him. The boy was jabbing at thin air, two sets of towels neatly folded by the edge of the pits. There were two flagons of water there too, neatly arranged side-by-side. Two blunted swords had also been discarded, and Clarke, feeling the lump rise to bile in her throat, understood.

“Tend to your Commander,” Clarke ordered. Aden had his back to her, but as soon as she’d said it, his shoulders deflated. It was hard to tell if the boy was crying when the drizzle became a downpour, and he trudged over towards where she was stood. “Keep her warm. You’d do well with warming yourself up, too.”

“How long will it _take_?” Aden asked impatiently, closing his eyes.

Clarke leant over the palisade. Fuck the barriers; fuck custom. “As long as it takes,” she reassured him, just like Lexa had reassured her once. She cupped Aden’s cheek. “Go.”

He left without another word, and Clarke tided up after him. She picked up the remnants of the stuff Aden had left behind, including his training sword, which he’d carved a clumsy “ _ADEN_ ” into the wooden blade. The other was unmarked, but its hilt was wrapped in the Commander’s signature red sash. Clarke stood for a moment in the rain, seeing only black liquid seeping into her hands as she desperately hoped for the rain to wash it away, but it stayed, persistent like treacle. _Reshop, Heda_ , she’d told Lexa one night, and now she could not wait for Lexa to wake up.


	3. Minutes - Clarke & Aden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Aden grow in 'Knife Edge' and here are some draft conversations I wrote up to sort of prep that. They're just random drabbles.

Lexa was, of course, too obstinate to die by a bullet wound to a non-fatal organ.

Clarke tried explaining to Aden that that wasn't how medical science worked, but his head was stuck in the clouds as he marvelled at how superior his Commander was. The boy had not left Lexa's (and thus Clarke's) side for two days, but in those two days he had managed to banish Titus from the capital for treachery and the illegal carrying of a weapon (none other than a Skaikru weapon, and so there had been no need for a trial). He'd also managed to forge a heavy crew of guards at the bottom of the tower, spear-headed by Indra, who he'd removed from watching the barricade.

"The Skaikru can fend for themselves," had been Aden's exact words. "If they want to face the Ice Nation first, then they can be my guest. We have our _Heda_ to wake up."

The clan leaders had all agreed quickly to the idea. In Titus' absence, the diplomatic speaking went straight to Aden, who would pass the message on to Nyko, who would read it stonily every day. Aden was a master of words considering his age, though Nyko's delivery lacked the sort of oomph Lexa just seemed to possess.

Since Lexa hadn't passed, the coalition had stalled. They could not kickstart another Nightblood trial because the Commander was not proclaimed dead. Not one clan leader could step into position as the Commander, because nobody wanted to disrespect Lexa's position (or face her annoyance when she woke). So they had murmured and whispered and fretted until Aden suggested they voted for one of the Nightbloods to step in, after explaining that they had undergone rigorous teaching and training under the Commander. Thus Aden had swiftly been drafted in as the young Commander Regent, impatiently. Clarke noted the clan leaders had not seen any of the other Nightbloods, or known any of the others by name.

It was a messy situation.

Yet the coalition, the Arkadia barricade, and Ontari—everything the clan leaders seemed to worry over day in and day out—were the last of Clarke's worries. It made her feel endlessly guilty, because this was Lexa's entire life of work they were hastily sweeping under the rug for now, but the only thing Aden and Clarke truly worried for was the protection of their Commander. Clarke kept her gun with her as she slept, and Aden kept his sword sheathed in its scabbard as he slept, both curled up in their respective armchairs on each side of Lexa's bed.

Lexa was also too much of an ass to wake up within a day or two, or even three, and so Clarke and Aden found themselves hesitantly then quickly warming to each other's company every morning they woke up and greeted each other over their Commander's near-dying body.

And they liked to talk.

 

* * *

 

"You just feel it," Clarke said, fumbling for words. Aden had taken the first swing in firing off a heavy question. "I...don't think what Lexa and I have is exactly what you, and, um, what's her name--?"

"Hemla," Aden said, his ears reddening.

"Yeah. I don't think—I mean, maybe you—are too young." Clarke shrugged, as Aden's eyes narrowed in doubt. "When I was your age, I swear I thought I was going out with about three different people at the same time, and I'd only kissed one of them." _Plus I was in space_ , she wanted to add, but Aden was flustered enough.

"I haven't _kissed_ her," Aden said, hushing the word 'kiss' as if it was some scandal. "I can't be that crass most immediately." He waited for an answer. "...Isn't that correct?"

"Well." Clarke was definitely not someone Aden needed to have this conversation with. Now, and she couldn't believe it, more than ever, she wished Lexa was awake. She was far better with words than her, and closer to Aden than her. And they were talking about this across Lexa's sleeping form, mirroring each other's stances as they pulled their armchairs closer to the side of her bed to talk. "Sometimes you get caught up in the moment and the kiss just...happens."

"What moment?" Aden probed eagerly. "Perhaps if I bought some flowers? Her mother is the best florist in Polis. She is my mother's friend. Aya said that Herst picked her daisies and she just knew it felt right when they kissed."

Clarke took a long gulp out of the mug of wine she'd poured herself. Aden had taken the liberty of bringing up cases and cases of the heady Polisian liquor—probably to loosen her tongue, the little shit. " _No_ ," she said, a little too firmly. "I mean—you don't _make_ a moment. It just _happens_."

"It happens with a flower," Aden decided, "That's what Aya said."

"That's not what happens."

"Is that because it was different with you and the Commander?" Aden veered the conversation back on track again. He supposed _'how do you know you're in love, like you're in love with my Commander?_ ' had been a rather deep question to fire off first, but Aden respected the element of surprise. "What was your moment?"

Clarke drained her mug empty and poured herself another, nearly spilling the liquid. "No," she said again, and this time, it was her cheeks reddening. "Everyone has different moments with different people. You don't just have a staple 'moment'."

"But what was yours?" he pressed. "Did you unfurl a flower for her?"

Clarke stared blankly at him, then at Lexa, then back to him, hoping that in the time she'd taken to do so, an answer would crop up. But there was no answer. There had not been a singular _moment_ and there wasn't... _not_. She knew instantly if she blabbed _that_ out, Aden would conjure up a thousand other questions so she stayed silent. By now she had figured she might as well tell him, because Aden was not leaving this room and neither was Clarke, until Lexa woke. Yet as she searched for the truth, she found she did not have the answer, or an answer Aden would probably find satisfactory. There was not a singular moment. There had been many. _So_ many. There had been moments that had happened in real-time, and moments she looked back on in hindsight, and had fallen for Lexa all over again. It messed up her way back and forth with time.

Now she thought of their first meeting in the tent, she could see two versions of herself; the version now, and the version untarnished by events that had yet to unfold. She had felt intimidated but bold, fearful yet determined. Now all she could think of was how she yearned for everything to just go back to the start, and to walk down an entirely different path with Lexa. Now the tent was stuffy and intoxicating because Lexa's confidence and power attracted her; now she shuddered at the way Lexa closed the gap between them, standing tall and mighty with the throne as her backdrop.

Clarke's mind and senses had been invaded by Lexa since the start. It may have manifested itself in various ways in the past, but Lexa had never been apart from her, truly. Not when she was so vivid and irreplaceable in her head. Now she thought of that alternate path she'd wanted to journey down with Lexa, and took it away. And then pieced it back together. She wondered if all paths would converge at a point where they kissed in Lexa's chambers, sunlight bathing them through her windows as the sadness of parting meshed with months of longing, and blossomed into desperate, raw _want_. The urge to kiss Lexa again filled her mind, and Clarke drained her second mug of wine, utterly lost by the memory of Lexa's lips against hers, so soft, so welcoming, and so _loving_. She could see Lexa pushed down on the bed, staring up at her in a silent ask of permission. Clarke had never been gazed upon so reverently, not the way Lexa had looked up at her that day.

Or had she? Had she always been looked at like that? As she slept whilst Lexa kept watch after the _pauna_ , had Lexa watched her so? Clarke knew that as she'd absent-mindedly sketched Lexa in her slumber, she had felt her own gaze piercing deep of desire. She wondered how many times Lexa may have looked at her as if she held the world in her palm. She wondered how many times Lexa had missed her do it to her, too.

"Ambassador?"

Clarke snapped from her daze, swallowing hard. The lump in her throat robbed her of the ability to speak. Aden tilted his head in expectation, curious. But the way Clarke's eyes softened, and briefly flicked to an unconscious Lexa—

"You love her very much," Aden said quietly, internally slapping himself for asking _that_ question so soon.

"When you stop just struggling for survival," Clarke said instead, "and start struggling solely for living. That is your moment."

Aden stared at her, the sentence obviously flying over his youthful head. And Clarke nearly laughed, because he was _so young_ , and so _naive_ , and _everything_ Clarke was the moment she'd met Lexa. Idealistic, trusting, so desperate to be _good_. He was handsome, his angular face sweet and strong, and Clarke knew when Aden matured there would be women and men falling at his feet. She allowed herself a sprinkle of naivety and hoped that Hemla would still be.

"I don't think you really know. Think of it like a storm," Clarke began, "That initial rush: think of it as a storm. I don't think you fully appreciate everything that's built up to the storm until the storm passes, and everything's clear."

"And you stand in the rubble the storm leaves?" Aden provided.

"Right." Clarke brooded over that for a moment, and pulled another mug out. This time, she poured for both of them and handed a mug over to Aden too, careful not to spill the liquid over Lexa's body. She had been a blizzard; a hurricane, tearing her world apart until there was nothing but wreckage and ruin. She'd rampaged through her soul until Clarke was forced to bear it raw and naked to both Lexa and herself. She'd been a complete blindside, but it had been brewing ever since Lexa took that first step towards her in that tent. "The moment you start appreciating the beauty of all the shit that you're made of, that you can rebuild and survive and still _want_ , then I think you know. And sometimes it's too late." Her gaze fell upon Lexa again. "Sometimes there's still room to hope it's not."

There was no answer from Aden's end, who decided to rob himself of the necessity to form a sentence by hastily gulping down his mug of wine. He grimaced at the taste, but he forced the head-spinning liquor down his throat anyway until it sat warm in his belly. His head filled with thoughts of Hemla, and also everything he'd seen between his Commander and the Skaikru Ambassador. He'd seen smiles and stares he'd never seen anywhere else, and when he dared to really look at Clarke again, she looked immeasurably sad.

Aden wrestled down a burp. "I don't think I have that with Hemla." Clarke startled at the sound of his voice, and he apologised for breaking her out of her trance. She did it a lot. "I mean, what you have with the Commander."

Clarke laughed, not humourlessly, but not happily either, and she shook her head. "I didn't think _I_ had what I have with your Commander until..."

"You love her," Aden said simply. He raised his mug. "I think we can drink to that."

Clarke raised her mug too.

 

* * *

 

"What are the Nightblood lessons like?" Clarke asked curiously, as she rubbed her still sleepy eyes. The morning did not fail to wake them. The Commander's chambers were filled with sunlight, and Clarke wondered if it was purposefully designed like that to automatically wake Lexa up. _Not this morning_ , she thought a little hopelessly, reaching to squeeze Lexa's cold hand. It was almost ritualistic now. Aden was already combing his hair in front of a mirror, fully awake. "I only saw the back-end of one of them, but there's a big class of you."

"It looks big, but we know each other closely," Aden said. "It also means I get my daily dose of teasing for the way I look at Hemla. Or Evie. Or Mia. Literally _anyone._ My heart is with Hemla! Even _Heda_ subjects me to it sometimes," he added glumly.

"I'm so sorry for you," Clarke laughed, and Aden quirked a smile. "I mean, what is the structure? I know there are those three pillars: compassion, wisdom and strength. Do you just go over those again and again until it's drilled into you?"

"No, no. It is part of us, the moment we're born," Aden told her. "The lessons serve as a way for us to regroup and converse with each other, and with the Commander. We ask questions, and she defers it to a discussion. Sometimes she sets a scenario in the beginning for us to work our way through, but it's always an open floor discussion. Sometimes it is physical, and we move to the sparring pits for that."

"Okay. So—if you had to sort of...standardise it," Clarke said slowly, "What'd be your average lesson?"

"There is no average lesson."

 _Okay. Damn._ "Then...what was your favourite lesson?"

Aden put his comb aside and went to his seat. They'd permanently hitched up on either side of Lexa's bed now, and conversing over her seemed to relieve them both. They both knew they were deepening the bond between them, and it had been something Clarke wanted to do for Lexa. She knew how much Lexa cared for him. But Lexa often believed that out of darkness came light; Lexa's situation was dire, but it had given Clarke Aden. She hadn't needed to force it. And that lifted her heart a little. Conversing with Aden was never a burden. The more they spoke, the deeper she understood just why Lexa was so fond of him. He was witty, articulate and smart, and his heart was nearly as big as Lexa's.

"That's a difficult one. I don't think I've ever had a lesson that I haven't enjoyed," Aden admitted, bunching his face up in thought. "I suppose when the lessons take a turnaround and we get to question the Commander. They're always fun. Most of the time they're educational."

"You little twerps turn it back on her?" Clarke laughed, tipping her head back. "Oh my God. Go on: tell me your Commander's deepest, darkest secret."

Aden grinned, and teased: "Do you want BC or AC?"

"What?"

"We call them—" He leaned in, as if confiding in Clarke a secret, so Clarke took the obvious bait and leant in, playing along. Aden snickered, "Before Clarke and After Clarke."

Clarke nearly snorted, smacking Aden's arm as he lazed back into his seat, clearly pleased with himself. Cheeky _sod_. Clarke couldn't help but feel a _little_ flustered, though, that even the Nightbloods knew enough to have nicknames for her. She knew it was somewhat shameless, but she liked that Lexa wasn't afraid to tell her Nightbloods the truth (she hoped not the _entire_ truth) about their relationship. It was something that plagued her consistently. From Raven to Octavia to Bellamy to her own mother, everyone on 'her' side of things was wary of her relationship with Lexa. The fact that Lexa could talk so openly about it with her Nightbloods, despite her own faction growing anxious—the adult side—was...sweet.

"Let's go for AC," Aden decided, seeing the way Clarke's blush deepened to a wine-like crimson. He smirked at his dozing Commander, and knew she would reprimand him of his sharp tongue and then laugh at it. So if he was to understand his Commander's burning love, he would have to test her relentlessly first. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture, mocking Lexa's posture on her throne and Clarke buried her face in her hands. "She would say: ' _come now, you don't really want to talk about_ me _, do you?_ ' and we would all shout the contrary. So she'd be forced to tell tales. Though sometimes I wonder if she...decorated them a little. Because it always became a scenario for us to think through."

Clarke frowned, and wondered how Lexa could twist kissing in a tent into a lesson. "Erm...like what?"

"Like—did you _really_ try to kill her with a knife?" Aden burst out, something he'd _obviously_ wanted to know for real.

"She used that as an example?"

"The moral was to never betray someone you loved by a Mountain. I commented and said it was a rather specific scenario. I think the others agreed with me."

Clarke had no other questions.

 

* * *

 

"Go to sleep, Ambassador."

"You go to sleep, Aden. I can cover this."

"You have not slept in a day."

"Neither have you."

Aden and Clarke sunk in their armchairs either side of Lexa's bed, patiently waiting for Nyko's potion to wear off. Whenever Lexa did seem to slip into consciousness, the pain was too much—to the point where they were _forced_ to give her more of Nyko's milky pain potion. Here they were hoping the next time Lexa woke, she would be able to bear it for a few minutes. Clarke was aware that this had been their hope for quite some time.

Aden sleepily gestured at Clarke. "I'm supposed to look after you."

"Says who?" Clarke laughed.

"Says my destiny," Aden said seriously. "If I am to assume all the responsibilities of my Commander, then I will behave accordingly. My Commander loved you dearly. I cannot let you fall ill. That would be careless of me. I cannot work you too hard. That would be inconsiderate. As much as yourself, I'd like to see you healthy when you embrace my Commander back to life."

"Then we'll keep it a secret," Clarke said, "Me and you."

"Clarke..."

"She loves you very much, you know," Clarke said fondly, her gaze flicking from a sleeping Lexa to Aden, whose eyes were barely open. "She favours you heavily."

"She loves you very much too," Aden said. "You are her beacon."

Clarke felt her heart ache in longing.

They both fell asleep that night.

 

* * *

 

"Not quite," Aden said, breathing heavily after their third round of sparring. He'd won all three, which meant Clarke was not even proficient enough with this damn stupid piece of wood—to beat a _child_. "You're attacking way too rashly. Like, when you're attacking me—say you bring your staff across—you should already have anticipated where you're going next. You should think about all the ways I could counter you, account for them, and have an attack ready for each possibility."

"So—I have to be thinking of approximately fifteen—twenty things in my head per blow?"

"It gets easier."

"This is impossible."

"It's not," Aden assured her kindly. "I was not a good stick fighter, but I improved with practice. Come on, Clarke kom Skaikru. Let us fight again, and I will slow down. We'll start with your first parry. You swung heavily _down_ at me. I parried you to the side, sidestepped you, and smacked you on the waist. Do it slowly."

Clarke performed the same move, and watched as Aden stopped where their weapons connected. "I'm going to brush your stick to the side and then step around. If I parried you like this, what would you do? To avoid that scenario?"

"Sidestep?" Clarke guessed. "You're sidestepping a lot."

"That's because you keep pulling off the same move. Come on, Clarke. A stick is not a sword."

"What?"

"You have no pointy end. Let me ask you once more: what would you do?"

 _Aden would make a good Commander_ , Clarke thought approvingly. His discipline was impressive, as was his patience with a quite drastically poor student. "Can I lunge forwards?" she tried, watching a smile spread across Aden's face. "You've parried me to the side but that means your arm is out at an angle. It leaves your body exposed. If I poke forwards, I'll catch you out before you sidestep."

"So if I just poke you..."

"But what if I anticipate _that_?" Aden said testily. "What _else_ would you do?"

"Are you kidding me? It took me years just to think of one solution!"

"Think of it this way: one attack has to already be anticipated by another. In order for your succession of blows to progress, you must anticipate your opponent's reaction. You can't know for sure I will react a certain way, so you must cover all bases. That is why we train so hard. It isn't a different style of fighting: it's a different person you fight each time. So if I hit you with X blow, there will be X, Y, Z solutions to the blow—and you must decide, in the fight, which is appropriate—and _then_ move onto attack number two."

Clarke stared at him as if he'd just spoken Klingon. This was ridiculous. So much thought should surely cause an explosion in a young Nightblood's brain but apparently they thought about this every single training session. Suddenly she felt woefully inadequate.

Then again, she had a gun.

"D'you want to go swimming?" she asked instead, because Aden loved frolicking outside of the walls—and no-one ever let him. Lexa had too many duties, and his mother worked full-time.

Boys were so predictable. Aden grinned and dashed out of the pits as quick as lightning.

 

* * *

 

"I love her." Aden wept by the bed, shrugging off his Commander's sash. Filling in for Lexa had been a daunting task; he hadn't anticipated it to be so suffocating, though. Clarke rubbed his shoulder as he rested his elbows beside an unconscious Lexa, scrunching up his eyes. "I love her like she is my world. She _is_ my world. I love her because she is my mentor; my confidante; because she is brave; she is honest; she is the embodiment of the Flame and everything it should be. I have never loved until I realised I love her."

Clarke comforted him, standing up as she watched over a sleeping Lexa. Aden fell into her embrace. She'd made him sit down, for the boy had drowned his sorrows in Polisian wine and could barely make it up the stairs. He clutched at her waist, and then he sobbed.

"I know the feeling," she murmured, closing her eyes. Aden's sobs felt like a noose around her neck. "The pain is worth it when she loves you back, you know."


	4. Just You and Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the anon (with a cat emoji??): GETTING MARRIED AND HONEYMOON. Finally, I remembered one of the things I'd always wanted done. (preferably canon)  
> NB: There are some bits and bobs that just fit into the Rise into Ruin canonverse and some (maybe) into the Knife Edge one, rather than the show one.

"Clarke? Clarke kom Skaikru?"

_BAM. BAM. BAM._

Clarke groaned as she rolled over in bed. Her arm flopped out and realised Lexa wasn't on the other side, and the hammering on the door continued. It was a boy's voice—and after a few beats of " _Clarke kom Skaikru_ ", she recognised it as Aden's. Rolling her eyes, she decided she was not ready for whatever bullshit he was pulling today—yet, and she would smack herself later, she flung the door open, her messy hair resembling a lion's mane and her face resembling...thunder.

Aden, smartly dressed, nearly jumped out of his skin. "Oh no," he said disapprovingly, shoving into the room. Offended, Clarke opened her mouth, and then Aden's entrance was followed by a group of maids. He spoke to them. "Will you please make her look presentable?" They muttered something in Trigedasleng and Clarke, folding her arms, waited. Aden tried to keep it quiet. "Well—at least make her look like a _human_!"

Shit-head.

"Is that possible?" Aden carried on, because clearly he hadn't been laid yet. "Yes? Alright—if possible, can you do it within the hour?"

They spoke as if Clarke was not there.

"Two hours?" Aden's gaze flickered from Clarke to the floor, and nodded. "I'll give you three."

"Wow," Clarke snapped, "Way to make a girl feel comfortable!"

"I was just trying—"

"Pass me my bra."

"Er—this—bra commodity you speak of, what does it look like?"

"Oh, _God_."

Clarke shucked off her tunic and Aden physically turned around in embarrassment, nearly tripping over his two feet as she slipped her bra on, quickly got changed into her everyday breeches and snatched a comb from one of the maids. "Let's go."

 Aden looked aghast. "But—"

" _Go_."

 

* * *

 

Aden extended his arm for Clarke to take as they descended the never-ending staircase of the Polisian tower. A crap design, she liked to remind Lexa, who would roll her eyes every time.

Since the quashing of Ice Nation's rebellion, Lexa had welcomed Echo as the new Ice Queen, with her stepping into the previous Queen's shoes. It was unstable. Echo and Lexa's ethics regularly collided, but Echo was far more accommodating than her predecessor. What happened up North was far away from the worries of Polis, the clan leaders advised, but Lexa had been adamant that the civilians up North got the same privileges and rights as the Polisians, the Trikru...

Aden noted the blistering sunlight outside the windows as they traipsed downstairs. "We could get you better-dressed," Aden suggested.

"D'you think I look shabby as I am?" Clarke asked.

"...No..."

"Then I'll go dressed as this. I'm assuming Lexa wants to see me."

"Not yet!" Aden blabbed, mentally slapping himself. _Think on your feet. Improvise. Anticipate_ and _parry. Okay. Jab._ "I need to do something first."

"I thought—"

"It isn't urgent. If you don't mind..." Aden played the sob-story in his head, and then he clasped his hands in front of him, bowing his head. "I need to do some shopping for my mother. The Commander is engaged for the time-being, hence why I asked for a few hours, but—my mother—she rarely sees the sunlight for she is cooped up inside for so long. Could you...?"

Clarke gripped his wrist, and squeezed lightly. "Aden, of _course_. Come on."

 

* * *

 

Lexa dismounted, wiping the sweat from her brow. It had been a hellish day (or night). As soon as Clarke had fallen asleep—and she fell _deeply_ asleep—Lexa had slipped away from the bed, nodding towards Jona, her chief City Guard by the gate. Jona had already saddled her horse and wished her a nervous " _good luck_ ".

It seemed, as Lexa arrived by the gates to the Ark crowded by Abby, Kane, Raven, Octavia, Bellamy, Monty, Jasper and Harper—that judgement day had arrived.

"Uh," she had began, very un-Commander-ish of her. "I would like an audience with Abby Griffin alone, please, if I may."

"Intention?" Harper was the girl by the gates, Lexa assumed. She did not know all of Clarke's friends.

"Confidential."

"I can't let you in without—"

"It's fine," Abby said, stepping forward to unbolt the gate. It was 3am, and the Commander of the coalition didn't just ride here, _alone_ , in the middle of the night, for no reason. If there was intent to harm, Lexa would've slain them all by now. "Commander, please step inside."

Abby had been calm and cordial in escorting Lexa to her personal chambers, ignoring Marcus Kane's concern. She'd brushed him off and Lexa respected that. She knew Abby Griffin as a trustworthy figure—she was a healer after all, and what were they except goodness? Kane was reasonable and fair, but he was also a politician. Lexa could empathise with him. But she knew that whatever Abby Griffin projected tonight, it would be straight from the heart—quite like her daughter.

Lexa made polite but short conversation as they walked, trying to recite the books she'd read on the topic. Their book-house was forged from stories told of the old Commanders, poetry written decades ago, and some books that had been foraged and found and returned to Polis as relics of the old earth.

Books could only get Lexa so far, though.

"You—you want to _marry_ Clarke?" Abby repeated in disbelief, hanging her head in shock. Lexa's ears reddened, knowing Clarke's friends would be outside the door, their ears pressed to the solid surface. "Commander Lexa, I...just..."

"Please," Lexa said, "Let me explain."

Abby relented, waving her arms frantically. "Please do."

Lexa swallowed hard, and began pacing the room—which did not help Abby, who'd sat down on the edge of her bed as if she was about to collapse. She respected Abby's stance in this: she remembered Lexa as the heartless Commander who had left her daughter for death at Mount Weather. Despite Clarke's residence in Polis, Lexa could try and sympathise with a mother's dilemma. Empathy—maybe not. Clarke was happy. Clarke smiled and laughed and played with the kids in the Square. But Abby was not privy to this.

"I have been made aware that some customs of the old earth have stayed with the Sky people," Lexa started hesitantly, trying to remember Aden's five pages of scribbly notes. "I am also aware that when two people love each other, it is customary to gift your loved one and ask for their hand."

Abby nodded silently, her jaw still slack. Lexa angled her head for a verbal response, but she received nothing. Slightly exasperated, but in full knowledge that she had to appear courteous, not like she had a bad case of constipation, Lexa plucked courage from thin air.

"I was also made aware that it is etiquette one must approach their loved one's father—or in Clarke's case, mother—to permit such a big ask."

"Uh-huh," Abby said faintly. "Have you been reading Georgian novels?"

"Have I—excuse me?"

"Never mind," Abby hastened. "Are you asking me if it's okay to marry Clarke? _Wait_ —" she said again, before Lexa could open her mouth. "You want to marry...Clarke?"

"She may not agree to take my hand," Lexa provided helpfully. "In such a case, my feelings for her will not fade. I will still love your daughter as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west."

Abby stared at her. The impossible answer would be " _no_ ". Clarke and Lexa would bench it anyway—but she didn't _want_ to say no to this sparkly-eyed, hopeful Commander. Kane had been right. She _was_ a revolutionary. And Abby's desire to throttle Lexa for what occurred at Mount Weather would never go away, but the fact that Lexa had ridden all the way here just to ask for _permission_ was something Abby didn't want to let go. She had not seen Clarke's face in so long; she had not heard from Clarke at all. But if Lexa was here, she could feel Clarke's smile; her laugh...

"I will have a carriage arranged for her to discuss it with you if you wish," Lexa said quickly, and Abby snapped out of her thoughts. "I understand it's difficult without Clarke actually—"

"You know Clarke, Commander," Abby laughed. "Do you really think I'd have much sway in whether she says yes or no?"

Lexa smiled reluctantly. Abby had a point.

"Your ways," Abby murmured, "don't always agree with what I think is right. I think you know that. Maybe _our_ ways aren't right either. But you rode all the way here, alone, just to ask me a question."

"In all fairness, Abby kom Skaikru, it is not just a—"

"I know. But you asked."

"I wanted to."

"She's barely an adult." Abby closed her eyes, and Lexa watched awkwardly as a solitary tear trickled down her cheek. She did not move to comfort her; that was too strange. And she could not empathise either. Her Nightbloods—the youngest being seven—could assume command at any given minute. Childhood did not mean weakness, and though Abby seemed to mentally cradle Clarke like a baby, Lexa would not forget the three hundred warriors this _child_ had scorched to death. She would not forget Mount Weather. She would not forget the fury and then the anguish on Clarke's face as she tried to kill her with a concealed knife.

She would not forget. Yet here she was, because she _loved_.

"I'd be giving my daughter to you," Abby said heavily, and she was not ashamed of the tears flowing from her eyes. Lexa found she did not care. "Commander, I trust you with her life—but I don't know if I trust you with _this_. And this _is_ her life."

When Lexa rode for Polis in the early hours of the morning, beckoning her horse to pound faster through the forest, she wondered how she would cope with her heart exploding tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Aden, it turned it, was a rubbish liar. He'd brought a _singular apple_ from the fruit market, a bottle of wine ("for my mother"), a swishy bracelet which he gifted Clarke with ("for the future!") and then double-backed to the fruit market only to spend over an hour asking what the odd-looking ones were, and then buying _one_.

As if Aden was controlled by some sort of switch, he decided they would take a walk. By now, Clarke was exasperated and tired enough to consider punching the boy's lights out, until they made it to the wall. Jona, a familiar face, grinned broadly at her.

" _Mochof_ , Aden," Jona said.

"Good luck, Clarke kom Skaikru!" Aden said cheerily as he left, waving.

Clarke was completely lost, and Jona was of no help either. She spoke in riddles, and Clarke was baffled as to why everyone was being so goddamn _cryptic_ around her all day. This was mainly Aden and his suspiciously suspicious gazes. Clarke noted the beautiful sunset, with the oranges and yellows merging with the lilacs and pinks of the sky. Another day fading, and another day on the brink tomorrow. Jona led her up the stairs to the wall-walk, and Clarke stopped in her tracks.

Lexa, dressed only in simple but smart black garb, swivelled on the spot to face her. Her hair was braided back neatly, her face slightly pale. In one hand, she held a braid of hair. The other was shoved inside a pocket. Jona left them, muttering under her breath. In the distance they both heard her yell for the guards to block passage to the wall-walk.

"Clarke," she greeted, too formally. Clarke nearly balked. What the _fuck_ was going on? Was _Lexa_ in on this weird ass trip too? "I...hope you are well?"

"What?" Clarke threw her arms up in the air. "Are you part of this too? Is someone gonna come and shove some mud in my face 'cause it's clearly prank Clarke day?"

"Excuse me? No!" Lexa's bafflement was genuine, and she hastily held out the familiar-looking braid of hair. Clarke stared at it, memories of water, memories of a muddy Anya—all crashing into her like a tidal wave. For some reason, Lexa had brought her up here again. "Do you remember this?"

"It's Anya's lock of hair," Clarke said quietly. "I kept it for you."

She wondered if it was Anya's name-day today, or if there was some particular reason—

"That was the first time I met you." Lexa's tone was soft, and hesitantly, she trudged over towards Clarke. Her words were not as smooth and confident as Clarke was accustomed to. "I remembered your flowing light hair and your sky-blue eyes, and I wondered if she'd fallen as a product of my wishes. A cruel lesson was when I realised that no, it was not. But I ask you here today because I asked your mother, who said yes—"

"You—saw my _mom_?"

"Yes. And I told her I loved you. I—love—you. Do you remember, when we were last here? When the sun slept and we watched over Polis— _our_ city—swell with life?"

Clarke felt a lump grow in her throat. "Yes."

"I want to see that every day with you," Lexa said simply. "I want to wake in the morning with you by my side. I want to kiss you until I cannot, because I've fallen asleep. I want to remind you with every waking moment that I love you. _Ai hod yu in, Klark kom Skaikru_."

"Yes." Clarke didn't know what else to say, her eyes stinging with emotion. It was not sadness—no, it definitely was not. It was a sense of impossibility suddenly becoming possibility. They had always been inevitable together; they had never been possible—not without their duties blocking their ways. And Clarke knew despite this—whatever Lexa was going to ask, and whatever Aden had been clearly distracting her from today, that the rule would remain in place. Lexa was a lover of her people, but in her heart—which was bigger than she knew—she had carved a space for Clarke, too. "I love you too, Lexa."

"Then be mine, as I am yours," Lexa said. She moved closer, and then knelt on the gravelly ground. Clarke stared down at her, stunned. Her heart felt as if it had stopped. "I want my eternity to be intertwined with yours. I declare my heart as yours. I vow to treat your people as mine; I vow to caress your body and soul with nothing but love."

 _Holy shit_... "Lexa, you don't need to do this—"

"I love you. As a storm may brew ahead for us one day, I will not let you fall away from me. My duty as the Commander is to my people; my duty as Lexa kom Trikru is to ask for your hand in betrothal, for I am utterly captivated by you. Every day I am more and more enamoured by your smile. Every day my hands smooth over your skin and I am entranced. Every day my heart swells when I think of you. Clarke kom Skaikru, would you do me the honour of joining your heart to mine?"

 

* * *

 

Abby's ring, gifted to her by Jake, was now on Clarke's finger. She glanced at it, and back at Lexa, who smiled at her.

That night, they made love. Clarke had never wished to be _married_ , but here she was. And she kissed Lexa as she her lithe body crawled up Clarke's, tasting herself on Lexa's tongue. That night, they made love and that night, they worshipped each other.

 

* * *

 

"Where are we going?"

"A little patience," Lexa teased her as she tested her new horse. It was pitch-black, named Thunder, and they trotted at a leisurely pace. Clarke's arms wrapped around Lexa's waist, resting her chin against the crook of Lexa's neck as she rode. As they rode, Clarke took in the beauty of the Trikru territory—the plains just outside of the Polisian walls, the lake, and the forestry.

It was buried deep within the forest, but Lexa finally tsked at Thunder and dismounted easily, hoisting Clarke off the horse too. She quickly tied Thunder up, scruffing him by the neck, and Clarke studied the sight before her.

There was a very modest hut before her.

Clarke noticed how green the grass was, and how fresh the lake seemed to be. The hut was shoddily put together, as if it had been a single-man job. It lacked the grandiose of Polis—that was for sure. But in there were trees nearby that grew apples, and Lexa plucked one off said tree and chomped hungrily into it. Clarke didn't even have the time to warn her about sanitation before she picked one for herself, rubbed a little consciously at it, and then bit into it. It was crisp and juicy, and she let out a moan of appreciation. Lexa's head snapped back and she smiled lopsidedly at her.

"What _is_ this place?" Clarke asked in wonder. If anyone wanted banishment, they should definitely come here—that was the thought running through Clarke's mind. It was nicely done-up, and it was surrounded by life—life that was charmingly silent, compared to the hustle and bustle of Polis' City Square.

"A reprieve," Lexa said. "Even the Commander needs one sometimes."

"How did you find it?"

"It found me." Lexa, even after her grand, dramatic proposal on the wall-work of Polis, had clearly not lost the knack for a cryptic word puzzle. "Now it has found _us_."

"Well, you rode towards it. So I'd argue otherwise."

Lexa was not amused.

Together, they cracked the door open and Clarke marvelled at how clean it was; she supposed Lexa must've ridden for this place and given it a good tidy before Clarke's arrival. There were fresh sheets and fur placed over the bed, with pastels and charcoal in a tin marked "KLARK" resting in the corner on top of a well-constructed desk. Other than that, everything else was basic. She assumed they would catch dinner in the woods or in the lake, and cook outside. The only other luxury Lexa had allowed was a fresh sketchbook, and far too many candles.

"It creates ambience," Lexa said when she saw the look on Clarke's face. "Sometimes there is a middle setting that is required between the bolstering sunlight and the pitch black darkness of the night."

"It's called sunset, Lexa."

"Yes, sunset. I like sunset."

Clarke wasn't quite sure how to argue that back. Instead, she flopped onto the bed, and revelled in some space to just sprawl over and spread her limbs. The journey from here to Polis had been long, and she closed her eyes momentarily.

Without really thinking, a small smile spread across her face. Lexa had effectively _proposed_ on the wall-walk, requesting they join their lives together. In many ways, Clarke figured they had unofficially married months ago. But Lexa was a stickler for tradition. She did not even want to know how many books she'd leafed through trying to figure out what Skaikru tradition was. She still needed to ask Abby what had been said—or if her mother would start vomiting rainbows at the mention.

"Are you happy?"

Lexa's voice was gentle when she asked it, and when Clarke's eyes slowly opened, Lexa had cocked her head to gaze at her curiously. Clarke couldn't help but fiddle with her mom's old ring. If this was the only message Abby could get out to Clarke in a long time, then it had worked. She knew of the depth of love between their parents.

"I'm with you," Clarke answered.

"Does—does that make you happy?"

"It makes me think you're an idiot for asking."

"I won't touch your heart except only to caress it," Lexa promised her, just like she had on the walls of Polis, overlooking her city. "I brought you here to get away from it all. Soon we will have to return to being the Commander and _Wanheda_ respectively. But here, no-one will find us; no-one will hear us. Here, it is safe to shuck off the skin of a Commander and wear one of Lexa kom Trikru. Likewise, it is the same with you."

Clarke indulged herself in the idea, her natural greed coming to the forefront as she wished _this_ could be their eternity. _Lexa_ being her eternity was _more_ than enough...but Lexa was not always Lexa in Polis. Sometimes, she had to execute decisions as simply the Commander. Sometimes it was not Lexa, but rather the Commander, who argued fervently over ethical issues of a situation. The promise of an escape—where Lexa could _always_ be that tentative young woman who'd dared to open the portcullis to her heart in her tent—was entrancing.

This, she realised, was their honeymoon.

Clarke grinned when she realised, her grin slowly fading at the thought. Their honeymoon was this: a stolen moment of blissful freedom, where there were no politics, no betrayals, and no fighting. Their honeymoon was a world where only two of them existed as who they really were. One: a delinquent fallen from the sky, her eyes the colour of the world she no longer belonged in. Two: a woman with the world on her shoulders; a child of the forest and a beacon of hope for all future generations. Here they could forget genocide; betrayal; assassination; wilderness...

Here, they could revel in something Clarke had wanted, solely: Lexa.

"I'm happy," Lexa mused. She was perching on the edge of a chair, watching as Clarke spread-eagled on the bed. "You make me happy."

"Do I?"

"You make me smile."

"That's a first."

"It's true. You make me happy when you are here; when you're not here I think of you and you make me happy once more. Your kiss makes me invincible. Your embrace renders me at your disposal. You, Clarke, I love. If you'll accept this twisted heart of mine."

Clarke shifted on the bed, shuffling to one side as she rested the side of her face on her palm, lying on one side. "Your heart's not twisted, Lexa."

"Beyond repair," Lexa disagreed. "I wish my love could be gentler. But you find me scarred and ruthless and sometimes cruel."

"I find you human," Clarke said honestly. "If you were anything but, I wouldn't love you the way I do."

"How do you love me?"

"Do you want me to show you?"

Wordlessly, Lexa crawled onto the bed, and all of a sudden she was a virgin again. Clarke encouraged her, wondering how the most confident speaker in all of the realm could be reduced to _this_ —but she did not know what was racking through Lexa's mind. Knowing Lexa, that was probably everything.

"You needn't kiss me any differently," Clarke murmured, as Lexa's hand rested on her hip. "When you kiss me, I feel everything. I always have."

And so Lexa kissed her.

She kissed her, gently, tentatively—just like the very first kiss they'd shared. It was an exploration; a test. Lexa kissed her as if she'd never kissed her before, her lips brushing tenderly over Clarke's as her grip on Clarke's waist tightened ever so slightly. Clarke cupped both of Lexa's cheeks in her hand and returned passionately, coaxing Lexa's lip open.

"Trust me," Clarke whispered against her mouth, and slipped her tongue in, brushing their noses together as they drew apart. She nibbled on Lexa's bottom lip, giggling softly at Lexa's rakish grin, and knocked their foreheads together. "We're in this together."

"The sky always joins the earth; it was a matter of destiny," Lexa said hoarsely. "It is of luck you are of the sky. Together I believe we can take the world back."

"Us two?"

"Maybe they'll write stories of us. Not of how we fought for peace, but of how we loved. How we broke each other and pieced each other back together. How we ruled the world because you believed in me, and I believed in you, and that candle never blew out."

"Maybe," Clarke agreed, "but I don't give a fuck about stories right now."

"No?"

" _No_."

Clarke kissed her again, surging up to meet Lexa's lips as they kissed properly this time, all cover of shyness and tenderness vanishing in an instant. She yanked Lexa by the waist, causing her to grunt in surprise as she involuntarily rolled over Clarke's body, straddling her hips. Clarke's hands roamed her body greedily as they wriggled out of their clothes, laughing as they tossed them anywhere and everywhere. Wanton fingernails sunk into the soft flesh of Lexa's ass, and Lexa shuddered as she dipped her head down, her kiss full of bite and tongue.

"Someone's keen," Clarke panted between kisses as Lexa ravished her. Her lips flew everywhere, from licking their way down the length of Clarke's neck to clamping her teeth down by her collarbone. With every kiss and lick and suck and bite, Clarke's back arched in pleasure, her head thrown back against the pillows as Lexa feasted on her, cherishing every contour of her body.

"You're so beautiful," Lexa mumbled against her sternum, her hands deftly pushing Clarke's underwear out of the way.

"Come here," Clarke beckoned.

Lexa, placing soft kisses on Clarke's breasts, gently clamped down on her nipple, her tongue swirling. She smiled at the way Clarke groaned in response, but she did as she was told, encouraged by Clarke's hand.

"Grab onto the headboard," Clarke said firmly.

"Clarke—"

" _Heda_."

Lexa had very few weaknesses, but Clarke calling her Commander—even if it was out of jest or just to get her own way—was far too easy. The power-trip she had was so stupidly immense that Clarke _had_ to mock her for it—and the way she fell for it every time. Lexa's hands gripped tightly onto the railing of the headboard, her arm muscles rippling as she did so. Clarke placed her hands either side of Lexa's thighs, clamping down to hold her in position.

"Say it." Clarke had her own ways. "Say ' _fuck me_ '."

Lexa obliged. "Fuck me."

"Mm." Clarke dipped her tongue in, feeling Lexa's growing wetness as she pressed the flat of her tongue hard against Lexa's lips. Her hips immediately jerked, but Clarke held her steady, gently tracing her tongue against the outer lips of Lexa's cunt.

"Please." Lexa was breathless as Clarke teased her, her teeth grazing against her inner thigh, her tongue swirling over the skin she bit. "Fuck me, _Clarke_."

Clarke's hands held her down as she thrust her tongue inside of her, satisfied all the way to the bottom of her belly and the overbearing ache between her legs as Lexa cried out in pleasure, bucking her hips as Clarke lapped up Lexa's wetness. She did not have to do a thing. She sucked at Lexa's sensitive clit, her darkened eyes flicking up to watch Lexa's sweaty body rock above hers, her forehead glistening with sweat. Her fists clenched harder against the headboard, and Clarke raked her fingernails up Lexa's back, digging her nails in so they'd leave scratch marks all over. She knew how sexy Lexa found it; how badly she wanted to be marred by Clarke's lust and affection. Lexa rolled her hips, desperately trying to keep up with Clarke's rhythm but Clarke wasn't doing a thing: it was all Lexa.

And it was a magical sight; the stuff of fantasies. Lexa, a goddess in her own right, throwing her head back as she came loudly in Clarke's mouth, her body spasming in sheer bliss. A mortal's tongue had driven a goddess crazy; a mortal's tongue had robbed the legendary Commander, a myth in centuries to come, speechless and dry-mouthed and buzzing with ecstasy as she came hard. If Lexa was a goddess, then Clarke was drinking the honeyed nectar.

Oh, but they were so _human_. It was why they hid from the world upon such an occasion; they 'married' in-secret, officiated by Kane and proudly escorted by her mother. Clarke thought with a laugh what her mother would say if she walked in on them now.

Lexa rolled off her, utterly spent and exhausted. She breathed hard, lolling her head back. _Jok_.

"This is why Sky people wish to become betrothed," Lexa deduced. Clarke was so in awe of watching her that she didn't even bother correcting how utterly and hilariously wrong Lexa was.

"Sure..."

"Here, we are Clarke and Lexa," Lexa said, heavy-lidded eyes filled to the brim with dark desire. She turned to face Clarke. "It is noon. I do not want to stop ravishing your body until the birds caw in the morning."

Clarke smirked at her. "Yeah?"

"I will make love to you," Lexa said softly, and then she said: "then I will—" she tested the word on her lips, "— _fuck_ you. I will do it  so hard you will scream my name so loud that the Polisians will wonder who is calling from the Trikru territory."

"You're all words," Clarke laughed, raking a hand through her sweaty hair. "If you could, you'd do it."

"I do not make promises I cannot keep."

 

* * *

 

 

It took them four days to ride back to Polis as they both complained of an ache _down there_ as they rode Thunder.

So _this_ was how a Grounder-Skaikru wedding would be like, then...


	5. Minutes - Lexa & Aden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously had Clarke/Aden. Now it's Lexa's turn.

 

The boy was young, scruffy-haired and lanky. Compared to the other Nightbloods she'd just initiated, this one seemed like an outlier. Briefly, it reminded Lexa of herself when she'd been found and thrust into Anya's care and brutal training as her second. Under her reign, kids who bled black did not become seconds anymore. They were the _Nightbleda_ , and they were _all_ her seconds. The young boy was the last to step up to the throne, bowing his head in respect.

" _Heda_ ," the boy said, reverently. "Commander." Warriors spoke Old English. "My name is Aden. I am of Trikru. I humbly ask for your approval of my Nightblood status." The boy—Aden—took Lexa's dagger and carefully sliced his wrist, avoiding any major veins. It had happened once, decades ago: an initiate had accidentally bled out in the throne room, and she'd failed before she'd even started.

Lexa held out her hand, smeared with black from the previous initiates', and Aden allowed three drops of his black blood to drip onto her palm. Then, he covered his wound up with a cloth.

"I swear fealty to you, Commander of the Flame, the chosen spirit of Becca, the saviour of our old world and creator of the new," Aden continued. Lexa could see some of the Nightbloods yawn out of the corner of her eye. It had been a long ceremony. It always was. "I swear as my blood drops into your palm, you hold my heart, my brain, and my soul as you teach us the ways of Commandership."

Lexa nodded at him, and he quickly joined the group of Nightbloods. Aden, this boy, did not look like the strongest. He did not seem like a mighty Commander should—but then again, she'd never, either. Yet he spoke fluently and with a confidence that was humble too—a strange juxtaposition for a boy so young. It was uncontrolled; it just came out of Aden that way.

"Nightbloods," Lexa called from her throne. Titus headed up the group, taking a sample of each the initiates' blood and smearing it on his forehead. "Tonight you are officially the next generation should my Commandership be questioned, or should my spirit pass. You have each given your life to the throne, as I did mine, years ago."

"Yes, Commander," they chorused back at her.

"You shall also familiarise yourself with my Flamekeeper, Titus," Lexa said. She gestured towards him, and all the Nightbloods bowed courteously. "He is my most trusted adviser and sometimes he will lead your lessons."

"I will ensure your safety as dearly as I protect the Commander's Flame," Titus swore.

"Yes, _Fleimkepa_."

"Flamekeeper," Lexa said hastily, as a few of them struggled with the inflection.

Once the ceremony—ridiculous, far too long and far too much blood—was over, Lexa mopped at her hand with a cloth, pinching her nose in annoyance. It was dried black. Everyone had left, so she was alone in the throne room once more. Alone with her thoughts. A sense of pride swelled within her. Today she had initiated a class of promising, bright Nightbloods who would eventually take over her position one day. She fiddled with the edges of the throne she'd become accustomed to, and wondered which one of them it would be. She wondered if her hands would still be as young as this when the time came, or if she'd grow to be old and wrinkled. No Commander had gone beyond thirty years—it was the nature of their living. Wars had to be won and sacrifices had to be made. Gallant deaths on the battlefield were an expected end to a reign.

Lexa considered this. She was only nineteen. She still had eleven years to go.

And a furious clan-wide war.

She sighed heavily. The Trikru were fighting the Boat People, who were also fighting both of the Southern Islands. As the Water and Mountain people joined to quell the threat from the North—the Ice Nation—Polis had stayed safe and out of range, though Lexa's heart longed to join her Trikru in battle. Instantly, she had been shut down by Titus, then by Anya, and then by Indra.

Once, she had been Anya's second. Now, she was the Commander and Anya was the General of the Trikru Army. She still remembered staggering out from the dense forestry that decisive night, the very last Nightblood to do so. Everyone had stared at her in disbelief—this slim, muddy, heavily wounded young girl had _won_? And then Gustus had picked her up in his strong arms, as shouts of " _Heda! Heda! Heda!_ " began, and a drowsy, befuddled Lexa lost consciousness.

It would be one of her initiates some day.

As the sun began to fall, Lexa shoved on her jacket and washed the Nightblood from her hands. The best time to go for a walk around Polis was at sunset, when the sky was a nice yellow-orange, like the sun was giving the night-time a brief wave goodbye of happiness. She trudged to the bottom of the staircase where there was a boy, in the middle of the quiet streets of Polis, practising footwork and basic moves with a shabby wooden sword.

Lexa leant against the wall, folding her arms as she watched his technique. He was not quick, but he was precise. And it was Aden.

"Aden?" she called out, smiling when he turned around.

He immediately reddened, attempting poorly to hide the wooden sword behind his back. "I was—" he sputtered, his free hand rumpling through his thick hair. "There's no space in the sparring pit, _Heda_."

"How do you propose to spar if you have no sparring partner?" Lexa asked.

"Well, I suppose with some imagination," Aden said earnestly. Lexa looked strangely at him for a moment, and then laughed. "The other kids have already paired up. One of them, a big boy, took one look at me when I asked him and said no. They wish to win the Conclave, you see."

"You don't think you can beat them?"

"When I say big, I really do mean it. He's twice the size of me."

"Gustus is twice the size of _me_ , and I regularly beat him down," Lexa said lightly.

"But you are the Commander. I am just a boy."

"You are a Nightblood."

Aden gulped, and then nodded. "Yes, I suppose I am."

Lexa considered wallowing by the wall-walk, as she did every sunset, and think yet again of Costia's decapitated head. She considered thinking of Nia's frosty blue eyes, and her smug lip curl as she slouched on her royal throne. She glanced at the Polisian walls, and then back to Aden. The sparring pit was currently occupied by a frankly pathetic-looking duo, swinging heavy logs at each other.

"Do you not have somewhere to be, Aden?" Lexa asked. "Where are your parents?"

"It's just my mother. My father passed." Aden blinked heavily. "I need to buy some food for dinner tonight at the market, _Heda_. My mother does not like it when I am late."

"What will you eat?"

Aden startled at the question. "Er—a beef stew, _Heda_."

"Sounds delicious." Lexa reached into her pocket and placed her pouch of coins in Aden's hand, ignoring his frantic protests. She made sure his hand curled around the pouch, and squeezed it. "Save it. One day you may need to buy a girl flowers. For tonight, spend a coin on the finest slab of beef you can find."

"T-thank you, _Heda_."

"Go," Lexa ordered.

He muttered under his breath, worried about being late, and thanked her again before sprinting towards the markets. Lexa watched after him, feeling something heavy shift in her chest, and she chuckled humourlessly to herself. He would not last a minute in the Conclave, the poor boy. Lexa bit her lip, and then swivelled around, making her way to the portcullis where her Chief Guard, Jona, bowed before her. Lexa nodded in return, and Jona watched as she ascended to the top. It was routine—every single day—and Lexa watched the fading pinks and purples and oranges. The day was fading into another restless night, and Lexa thought of Costia, and her deep green eyes, and her smile, her laugh, her kiss, her taste...she thought for the first time of the stars, and how they twinkled charmingly down at her. She thought of beef stew, and her stomach rumbled.

 

* * *

 

"Why aren't we in the sparring pits, Commander?" Tristan asked eagerly as the Nightbloods pooled into the throne room, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. "Should we not train to be excellent warriors?"

"That, you should," Lexa agreed. The Nightbloods looked at each other. "But you speak only of a soldier, Tristan. If you are a Commander, what other duties are you expected to fulfil? What other skills do you think you must possess?"

"You must look after the City Guard," Mia piped up, right at the front. "You must ensure they are being fair. And sometimes, they abandon post to drink at the inn. That's what my mother said."

Lexa blinked. _Right_. "You're...correct in a way, Mia," she said diplomatically. "You must look out for your guards. You will rely heavily on them, be it for controlling the nature of the streets or in battle."

"You must be fair," Jennon, a dark-skinned boy with a shaved head, was the next to volunteer. "When you resolve village disputes or city disputes you must remain impartial."

"Excellent." Lexa smiled down at him. "Anything else?"

"You must write," one of the bigger boys, Marol, shouted from the back. "If you are illiterate you cannot communicate with the other clans! And you will look a fool if you cannot read!"

"Can _you_ read?" Mia returned sharply, twisting her head around.

Marol narrowed his eyes. "Better than you."

"Enough," Lexa said exasperatedly, waving at them both. "Marol is right. You must be literate."

"You must listen to your heart," small Aden said tentatively, to her right. Lexa, caught off-guard—and rarely so—turned her head to face him, frowning. "The duty of the Commander is to love her people. There are hundreds in Polis, and I imagine hundreds more in the outlying villages. That must mean a Commander should have space for a big heart."

"You're right," Lexa said, "But sometimes you cannot always rely on your heart; your passions. Sometimes, you must rely on your mind."

"Like, when you are discussing tactics for battle," Alec said excitedly.

"But then you must also consider the lives you could lose," Aden pointed out. Lexa stared at him, and the determination behind his bright eyes. "If Commandership means loving the realm, then that is the entirety of it."

"But what if you had to sacrifice a village for ten?" Aliska, next to Aden, challenged him. "What would you do?"

"Mourn the village," Aden said quickly. He did not look at Lexa. "Never let them be forgotten."

For the most part, Lexa let them talk amongst themselves, occasionally providing imaginary scenarios or twists to the ones they'd already thought of. It took them all afternoon, but by the time Titus collected them from the throne room, they did not talk of sparring pits. They spoke of philosophy, weaponry, favouritism, politics and impossible choices.

"Progress?" Titus asked her later that night in the throne room. The Nightbloods had chambers below them, for the initial training period. Then they'd be allowed home as they continued under Lexa's tutelage.

Lexa scratched the back of her neck, and thought of big hearts. _Love is weakness_ , she reminded herself sternly, and made a mental note to scold Aden for this tomorrow. "Somewhat," she said.

 

* * *

 

It was raining, so the sparring pits were free. Nobody liked to wade around in what was basically a bog, so they took up activities within their own homes, as the wind blew mercilessly and the rain spat disrespectfully down on them. Lexa wrapped up and trudged outside, stopping only in her determined walk when she spotted a small figure alone in the sparring pit. It seemed he had crafted, from his woodwork lessons no doubt, a human figure about her height, and he was currently attempting to practice with his dummy. His posture was awful, and his arms flimsy as he went for a straight punch, and then an upper hook.

"It's raining, Aden," she called out, leaning against the palisade. He startled, nearly tripping over the mud at her voice. "What are you doing?"

"Nobody books for the pits in the rain," Aden said and pointed to his dummy. "I made one so I could practice the speed of my hands."

"Do you know anatomy?"

"Ann-ah-toe-me?"

That was a no. Lexa shook her head, and made her way into the pits with the boy. He'd stolen her spot anyway. "You don't just smack every part of the body. Every human has a weak point."

"So—do I have to learn them, _Heda_?"

"You will know them," Lexa assured him. "For example, if I hit you—punched you straight in the belly—it would hurt, but it would not damage you." She demonstrated lightly, resting her fist against Aden's stomach. "But if the bottom of my palm went up and forcefully smacked your throat, you would die if I hit you hard enough." Again, she demonstrated—lightly—but Aden staggered back, nearly gagging. "These are _weak points_ , Aden. Pretend to punch me in the belly."

Aden hesitated, wary of touching the Commander. "I don't think—"

"Come on."

It wasn't a request. Aden straight-punched, very lightly, at Lexa's belly. He rested his closed fist there, and she nodded. "For example, if you were matched man-to-man, and he did that to you, you must anticipate it before he completes the move," she explained slowly, as Aden's calculating eyes tried to digest the information. "If you can, you can—" Lexa seized Aden by the wrist, pushing it back and bending it at an awkward angle, her free hand going up to press the bottom of her palm against Aden's Adam's apple.

The rain smacked down on them, and Aden was soaked through. Lexa wondered how many hours he'd been out here, but he did not look like he had any intent of going home. Instead, Aden gazed up at her youthful wonderment. It was such a simple move.

"Can I try it, _Heda_?"

Lexa cocked her head as she studied him. He was eager to learn. Nodding, she tossed aside her belt buckle and her sheathed sword, appreciating that he'd taken some time to carve eyes—albeit scary-looking ones—into his wooden dummy. "Take it slow for now, yes?"

"Will it get quicker?" Aden asked before he made the move. "I'm not a very good fighter, _Heda_."

"Physically, someone like Marol has a foot on you," Lexa said honestly. Aden nodded. "But fights are not always won by pure muscle. Sometimes, fights are won and it's all because of this—" she leant over to tap the side of his head. "By the looks of it, Aden, you're a clever boy."

"Do you think I am Conclave material, _Heda_?"

"Every one of you is worthy of your Nightblood," Lexa said firmly. Aden gave her a small smile, and something in her chest twinged. "Believe it, Aden. That's an order. Believe it, because _I_ believe it."

 

* * *

 

The fight had been the longest they'd ever watched. As the minutes drained, each Nightblood was drawn closer to the single combat. Aden, perhaps one of the smallest boys of the class, had been given an unlucky draw: Marol. The boy was twice as big as him, and he wasn't _fat_ either. He was not solid muscle, but he definitely had more portions of beef stew a night than Aden did. Yet as they faced each other with their wooden staffs, they'd come at an impasse. Marol had found it infuriatingly impossible to disarm Aden, who was startlingly quick on his feet. He swerved and ducked and slid across the floor, parrying nearly every one of Marol's combination attacks.

Aden had only launched two attacks in the space of their fight-time. One had been calculated, a close attempt to lure Marol into dropping his staff. The next had been reckless and had nearly cost him the duel. But he could see Marol getting purple in the face, which meant either he was severely pissed off, or he was getting tired. Aden worried it was perhaps the former.

"Quit playing games, Aden," Marol snapped. "You're ducking like a coward!"

"I'm defending," Aden shot back.

Marol growled and launched his staff at him, a high vertical swing meant to crush the boy. Aden's eyes widened and he scrambled sideways. In the time it took Marol to make the foolish move, Aden was already behind him, and poked him hard until Marol sprawled onto the ground. To make sure he stayed down, he drew closer, and his knees bent and smacked Marol on the back of his thighs. Marol howled in pain, and Aden kicked Marol's weapon aside.

With the end of his staff, he prodded at the back of Marol's neck, and then pushed down. Marol instantly tapped thrice on the ground.

"Well," said a stunned Lexa, watching with her arms clasped behind her back. "Marol, it seems you need to stop taunting your opponents."

"He played unfairly, _Heda_ ," Marol grumbled, brushing himself off as he got up. "He parried the entire way!"

"He played a long game, not an unfair one," Lexa said, nodding at Aden. "Are you tired?"

Aden stuck the end of his staff into the mud and leant against it, breathing hard.

Lexa look it as a yes.

 

* * *

 

Whenever they finished in the sparring pits, Lexa would bring them to the New Capitol Inn and they would order whatever they wished, and the innkeeper would serve grand portions for the Commander and her potential successors. They simply bought large portions of nearly everything and shared and grabbed off each other's plates. Tonight, Lexa rewarded them with their first taste of honeyed mead. It was relatively weak and she'd restricted them to two jugs split evenly between the company.

She was wedged in-between Mia, who was now known as the group's gossip queen, and Aden, who was now known as the mouse who'd crawled into the elephant's ear and killed it by eating its brains. Lexa ate modestly, saving most of the food for the kids who seemed to ravish anything and everything, especially the honeyed mead. She made a note of Marol graciously swiping Isla's mug too, and rolled her eyes. The boy was big enough he probably needed double portions.

Aden, on the other hand, kept his bowl to himself. He'd piled it graciously with some boiled potatoes, onion gravy, and gammon slices. He ate relatively far from the table, whereas Marol was sprawled across it, conversing with someone on the other end. Aden sat straight, resting his bowl on his lap and he bent his head for every bite he took, relatively quiet.

"You had quite the victory today," Lexa said to him, noticing Jamie on the other side of Aden was busy quarrelling over a chicken drumstick with a fellow Nightblood. "You were clever."

Aden chewed hastily on his piece of gammon, and swallowed. "Opportunistic, _Heda_ ," he said modestly, taking a tiny sip of his honeyed mead. He made a face.

Lexa laughed. "You'll get used to it. Soon you'll be dancing on the Polisian wine."

"Perhaps."

"What makes you think tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yes. Your mind is occupied. You are reserved, Aden, but tonight you are withdrawn."

" _Heda_ is very observant."

Lexa studied him, taking a sip from her own mug. "I'm your Commander, Aden. You are my Nightblood. If you need to confer with me about anything, I will make it my duty to do something for you. Do you understand?"

"Thank you, _Heda_."

"The pouch of money I gave you, all that time ago," Lexa remembered. Aden seemed to as well, nodding slowly. "Is it enough?"

"More than," Aden said quickly. "I use it to buy some bigger portions of food on the days my mother does not make enough money. She is growing ill, _Heda_. I do not tell her, though, for she would be ashamed. In all honesty, I do not wish to be charity."

"You're not charity. You're my Nightblood."

"Nightblood." Aden tested the taste of the word on his tongue, and found he liked it. His lips quirked up into a smile. " _Heda_ , if I may ask you a question in confidence?"

Lexa nodded, leaning into him slightly. "Yes?"

"Now," Aden said, "Am I worthy of my Nightblood? I beat Marol—you said, I used my brains—"

"Aden." Lexa clapped him on the back. "Everyone around on this table is worthy. Even if from now on, Marol beats you every single time, you will remain worthy."

"Thank you, _Heda_."

"Have my mug too," Lexa encouraged him. "I don't fancy the taste of honeyed mead."

"Neither do I, _Heda_."

 

* * *

 

The moment Lexa knew Aden was the most promising of her initiates was not when he neatly beat her in the sparring pits; it was when he had the gall and the brains to answer her (seemingly) most difficult question posed to the Nightbloods.

They had been debating, loudly, over it for a while.

"You have three pillars of being a Commander," Lexa announced. "Compassion. Strength. Wisdom. What's the best answer?"

Each Nightblood had posed excellent cases for each pillar.

"Strength," Marol declared. "If you are strong, you will be feared by your enemies and your people will know that they will be protected by a strong leader. If you are weak, you become consumed by your fears and your people will lose faith in you. Without your people, you are nothing. So you must be strong."

"Compassion," Mia argued. "You must be compassionate in order to understand the needs of your people. Some may live in different circumstances to others. If you show compassion, the people will grow to love you for your understanding and you will never lose the people's faith."

"Wisdom," Ammar countered, drumming his fingers against his kneecap. "You must be wise in order to engage in military tactics in case you are attacked, or in case you are the attacker. You must be wise so you have answers for village and city disputes, and know the line between just and unjust, and know when not to cross it. You must be wise to be literate and negotiate with other leaders."

"You have argued well," Lexa said, when the room fell silent. Nobody had anything else to add. "Your answers all counter-answer each other's. It's very difficult to decide."

Marol, Mia and Ammar glanced between each other. They wondered if it was a test, because if it was, they had failed spectacularly, for now they had argued their case, they could not choose. Marol was a little flustered—as he easily got—and Ammar scratched his head, deep in thought. Lexa watched them like a hawk, waiting for _one_ of them to speak out.

"What about all three simultaneously?"

Lexa's head popped up to the voice at the back. Aden's messy blonde hair, sticking out at all angles, was instantly recognisable. He hadn't raised his hand, but he looked as if he had been pondering the arguments for a while.

"Is it possible?" Aden asked.

Lexa slouched a little in the throne. "You tell me, Aden."

"If you are strong, you have all the qualities Marol has listed. If you are wise, you have all the qualities Ammar listed. If you are compassionate, you have all the qualities Mia listed. None of them are superior to the other. But we are not supposed to be foot soldiers," Aden recalled, perhaps from their very first lesson. "If we are to be Commanders one day, then I propose we shoulder all three qualities. If you build something with a foundation of one pillar, it is less likely to stand than if you had all three together, working in sync with each other."

"That _must_ be cheating," Jamie laughed, "Aden, you just combined all three well-thought answers into one!"

"But it's true!" Aden insisted. "Should a leader be strong but not compassionate nor wise? Or compassionate but not wise _or_ strong? Or wise but not compassionate or strong?"

"How about this?" Lexa suggested, when dissent rose amongst the Nightbloods. "I am going to ask you some questions about _me_. I want you to answer with a simple yes or no."

The Nightbloods nodded, glancing at each other. Someone wanted to nab the best answer.

"Am I strong?" Lexa asked them.

"Yes, _Heda_ ," they said in unison.

"Am I compassionate?"

"Yes, _Heda_."

"Am I wise?"

"Yes, _Heda_."

"Hm." Lexa rubbed her chin, grinning at her dumbfounded class. "Aden, it appears we have a problem. It seems your cheating answer was correct."

 

* * *

 

"Where do you go every sundown, _Heda_?"

The voice startled Lexa from her thoughts as she pivoted where she stood, dropping her gaze all the way down to Aden, who was staring up at her. They were just outside the Polisian tower, and it was sunset. Lexa was prepared to meet Jona and sit by the wall-walk, and she realised Aden—who had some (but not much) muscle on him now—was still practising his imaginary sword movements.

"You always walk that way," Aden continued to observe, gesturing towards the portcullis. "Do you like the walls a lot?"

"It's high up there. You can see the entire city."

"Can I come with you?"

Lexa hesitated. "Not tonight, Aden."

Aden nodded, and continued his work silently. Lexa walked away, silently too.

"Is it hard, _Heda_?" Aden shouted after her. Lexa turned on her heel again, frowning expectantly. "You spoke of the three pillars of Commandership. Is it hard to maintain all three—at once?"

"Sometimes it is hard to maintain _any_ of them at a time," Lexa admitted, thinking of all the times she had angrily thrown something at a wall, at Titus, or kicked people out of rooms, trashed rooms...

"But you do it," Aden said admiringly. Lexa gave him a strained smile. _No, I don't._ "The city is well under your watch, _Heda_."

"Keep practising. When I come back, I want to see drastic improvements."

"Drastic? Where—where are you going, _Heda_?"

Lexa pondered telling Aden or not. Aden had friends, but he was not much of a speaker—and less of a gossiper. "Home," she said truthfully, a fond smile curling her lips. "There is trouble within Trikru territory. There has been some violence. I wish to call counsel with my Trikru Generals and Chiefs and talk of a solution."

Aden blinked in surprise, tucking his wooden sword under his arm. "What happened?"

"Would you believe it," Lexa said, eyes twinkling, because what harm could it do? "A star fell from the sky."

 

* * *

 

Aden was much older now, dressed in lightweight, armoured, black garb as he practised with his wooden dummy outside the Tower. He was a regular sight now, and people were rather fond of the handsome boy determinedly practising whilst the sparring pits were full.

Much had changed. Aden had grown sombre. The first sign of this was not caring about the taste of Polisian wine, apparently, and Aden had fallen victim to that particular symptom. His Commander had been shot by a Skaikru bullet, and was recovering slowly. He prayed to the stars every morning and night, willing her to come home. He had fallen in love with the florist's daughter, and yesterday he had kissed her, and blushed all the way home.

Well—he _thought_ it was love. It was nothing compared to what his Commander had with Clarke kom Skaikru. From the Commander's tales, it had been Clarke who had fallen from the sky that day, and though Aden could smell blood on their hands, whenever he saw them or passed them, they seemed so purely in love that he could not imagine either one of them turning a sword on anyone.

And that was _after_ the Commander had launched a spear straight through the Ice Queen's heart.

He still remained in almost childish awe of that day, and he thought of how his Commander had been on the ground, ready for death. The thought haunted him every night, and then his Commander would roll away and kick King Roan's legs beneath him, and she would not just win a battle but she would avenge a death and create a fairer King simultaneously.

He thought back to the three pillars, and wondered if it was similar.

 _Jus drein jus daun_ , he heard his Commander say, and it was the Ice Queen's blood for Costia's. She had killed a Queen and made a King. She had succeeded, in "one must die today"—without it being either Lexa _or_ Roan.

Aden jabbed forwards, careful to keep his legs slightly bent. He had witnessed Jamie suffer a broken leg the other day in the sparring pits, after going _far_ too hard with Marol, who had kicked at his left leg. Because Jamie had held it ramrod straight, it had snapped, and after Lexa had rushed to tend to the pain, she made sure everyone took note.

Aden could see it in the way she fought. She did not run; she shuffled, her gaps wide or small. She did not wait; she anticipated. She did not attack; she attacked and defended. Aden would remember her fight with Roan for the rest of his life. It had been the most magical thing he'd ever seen.

Steps clattered from the Polisian tower, and Aden swivelled around, on-time, and bowed deeply.

" _Heda_ ," he said respectfully, and Lexa smiled rakishly at him. There was colour back on her face, and he watched dreamily as she closed her eyes, basking in the sunlight. Today was the first day she'd been outside. Then, Aden bowed again. "Clarke kom Skaikru."

"Hey," Clarke said, smiling too.

Clarke kom Skaikru had been the star falling, and his Commander had been the daring fetcher. Aden watched as Clarke grew accustomed to Polis, a strange colour of faded red and sunken eyes transforming into a dirty blonde, quite like his, and a brighter gaze. There had been whispers of the Commander and the Sky girl, but Aden had left those rumours alone until he'd accidentally walked in on them in the throne room.

Aden did not speak of that day.

Aden could only stare at his brave Commander, too stubborn to die by a Skaikru weapon and treachery. He had seen her so many days, emerge from the staircase with intent for the wall, and he'd seen the same expression on her face for _years_. It was melancholy, though not an unbearable sad. There had been hope, but it faded, and then when the star fell from the sky, Aden had not seen his Commander in a long time.

But today, he noted Clarke kom Skaikru had her arm interlinked with his Commander's. And as he watched his Commander, as he so often did, he saw her eyes soften, the tiniest of crinkles at the edge of her eyes. She gave Clarke a sideways smile, and Aden full-on grinned at them.

"What is it, Aden?" Clarke asked good-naturedly. Aden didn't like many things about Clarke, but he loved that his Commander loved her, and he had found himself confiding in her many times during Lexa's spell of unconsciousness.

"I have food." Aden rushed to his bag, where his flagon was, and then pulled out a rusty box. "It is warm. I have collected it not long ago, from my mother's house. I bought the freshest beef there was."

"Beef stew," Lexa said.

"Beef stew," Aden repeated.

"Some things don't change," Lexa laughed.

Aden noted the closeness of the two women, and he realised how much he'd missed Lexa; how much he appreciated what Clarke had done for them. For her. He would never stop marvelling at the utter transformation on Lexa's face. Once upon a time, Aden had witnessed his great Commander, pensive as she waited for the sky to come crashing down. And when it had, he witnessed his great Commander revel in its beauty, and he witnessed his great Commander smile.

"Some things really do, _Heda_."


	6. Reshop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sticking this one-shot here just so I can compile all one-offs in one place!

"...Shot...it's not fatal..."

"...Where did he even get that gun?"

"...Is the Commander okay, _Wanheda_...?"

Lexa's eyes flickered as she dozed in and out of sleep. The only thing keeping her awake was the sharp jabbing pain in her abdomen. Over the next few days it had dulled until it was nothing more than an irritating ache. It also meant that Nyko's milky potion of pain relief knocked her out within minutes, which wasn't ideal when she wanted to signal for more water for her parched mouth. It wasn't ideal when it was just her and Clarke in the room, and Clarke was hovering over her, and all Lexa wanted to do was will her arm up to yank her down by the neck and kiss her.

She'd survived. Somehow, somehow the gods, the spirits of the Commanders—by some magic or Skaikru technology—she'd survived.

She saw flashes of a terrified Clarke, her hands covered in black blood. She could see Aden barging into the room with supplies day in and day out, his hair growing far too long. She didn't have the energy to tell the boy to cut his damn hair.

The pain potion was too much. It dulled her senses to a point where she could barely count to ten. And it was on a warm day where the sun streamed through the windows, and Clarke took a particularly long time to fetch the potion by the windowsill, that Lexa grabbed her chance.

"Wait," she croaked out, her eyes squinting at the sunlight. Clarke stilled. "Wait."

"Lexa?" She spoke her name as if she would never say it again, and swivelled slowly, as if to make sure it really _was_ Lexa speaking. Even if there was nobody else in the room. " _Shit_. Are you okay? Do you want more of—"

"Not the pain potion," she forced out, wincing as her stomach pierced in response. "I can't think, Clarke. I can't do anything. If you'll let me live, don't immobilise me."

"I'm doing the best I can. _We're_ doing the best we can," Clarke said adamantly. "This'll help."

"Compromise," Lexa said simply. "I would rather suffer a bit of pain and get to look at you than sleep all the time, painless."

"That's ridiculous—"

"Yes? I think my tolerance is quite high, considering I got shot by a Skaikru weapon by my own mentor."

Silence fell between them, and with a heavy sigh, Clarke set the potion aside. It took a lot of coercing and a _bit_ of charm—a lot of it—for Clarke to relent and hide the potion in one of the drawers. She supposed Lexa had a point. There was not much good in having a vegetable of a Commander when she was going to recover anyway. So long as she didn't strain herself too much and throw herself into physicality straight away, there was no reason to keep her mollified for so long.

"Aden's been worried about you," Clarke said quietly as she dabbed at Lexa's sweating forehead with a cold, wet cloth. She leant over, setting the cloth aside and cupping Lexa's face. "We all have."

"How is he?" Lexa asked for him as if he were her own child. Considering the nature of his parenthood, and how they had only recently been killed in an Ice Nation raid—he was of the Water clan—she supposed she had earned that title. Or maybe she just wanted it. "Is he under Titus' tutelage?"

"Somewhat. He confided in me."

"Oh?"

"He told me that _someone_ —" Clarke shot her a meaningful stare, "Advised him to take Indra's counsel."

"Don't look at me like that," Lexa teased, a little weakly, because if she laughed, it did hurt like a bitch. "Did you expect me to tell him to go seek tutelage from the person who shot me? Aden would've tried to kill him, the reckless juvenile he can be sometimes."

"He almost did," Clarke admitted, and Lexa startled, only for Clarke to wave it away. "A story for later."

"Okay. Trade me that story for your body against mine?"

It came out a lot smoother than intended, judging by Clarke's eye-roll. Still, she relented—she did a lot for Lexa these days—and Lexa scooted over carefully, ignoring Clarke's insistence on not to rip out the stitches. Eventually, after a lot of sweat, shouting and cursing, the pair managed to fit onto the double sized bed. And then it just came naturally. They had always been two missing pieces of a jigsaw, and they slotted together smoothly.

It struck Lexa then, that they hadn't really spoken for what felt like weeks. She didn't want to ask how long she'd been out for—she didn't want to steer the conversation towards that direction today. Not while she could function and speak like a normal person, for the time being.

Lexa took the opportunity to rest her head against Clarke's chest. Usually, she was the bigger spoon. The reliant one. And she never got to revel in how good it felt to just be embraced; to let that responsibility sit on someone else. To let everything in her head, in her heart, just rest on Clarke—just in that moment.

"There's a lot I didn't tell you," Lexa mused, pressing a soft kiss to Clarke's collarbone. Clarke hummed in response, quietly content in just holding Lexa. "When we kissed...when we were about to say goodbye..."

Clarke dipped her head to look at her, her lips quirked in a smile. "Three words?"

Lexa felt her words get stuck in her throat. "Hm?"

"I was about to tell you the same thing."

"You know, in Trigedasleng, it's four."

" _Ai hod yu in_ ," Clarke told her, and Lexa grinned at her clunky use of the language, pleased nonetheless. Clarke could feel the amusement resonating from her, and held her carefully as she laughed, by the stomach, so she couldn't rip any of her stitches out. Lexa had long been healing, but she was still tender to touch, and winced when Clarke let go. "You're made of words, Lexa. But sometimes you can just look at me and I'll know. Aden says your eyes are green like the forest because that's what made you. I think your eyes are just..." Clarke fiddled around for a word. "You."

"Then—" Lexa cleared her throat, feeling her eyes droop in contentment. "I—love—you."

Clarke laughed, and dipped her head again, this time, to press a proper kiss against Lexa's lips. Lexa angled her head to deepen it, only to hiss in pain from her stomach wound. It would take a long time to recover, and though Lexa stubbornly ignored it, her hands roaming over Clarke's hips, Clarke stilled her movements. It would be no good kissing Lexa if she'd injure herself in the process. Lexa closed her eyes and allowed it, feeling a familiar ache between her legs. It never seemed to go away whenever she thought of Clarke like that; it was like once she'd bitten the apple, she needed to eat the rest of it. And the way Clarke held her, her hands occasionally stroking up and down the side of Lexa's body, Lexa knew she felt the same.

 

* * *

 

Aden visited on the third day without Nyko's potion, his hair neatly combed to one side. In one hand he held the Commander's red sash, and in the other, he—rather awkwardly—presented a bouquet of flowers. Lexa could've laughed at the sight of him, if she had the energy, but she smiled warmly instead and he strode in, bowing deeply before the foot of the bed.

" _Heda_ ," he said, almost breathlessly. His cheeks were pink, as if he'd sprinted up the staircase. "I, uh, cut my hair. Clarke kom Skaikru told me my hair looked messy, and I wanted to be presentable. This—" He carried the bouquet in his hand, looking for some excuse to babble, "Is—well—one of the kitchen girls, her friend, well, she's a florist, or something, and she said these flowers—I can't remember the name—they're for good health, and good lock, and—"

"They're lovely, Aden," Lexa settled him, and his shoulders deflated, the tension instantly gone. "How have you been?"

"Sleepless," he rambled, setting the flowers to one side. He self-consciously patted his hair down. There was one particular strand that just wouldn't sit down properly. "There is a lot of paperwork in being a Commander."

"A lot of honeyed wine, too," Lexa added, and Aden grinned a little guiltily. Already she could feel herself easing back into the regularity of life. They didn't talk of the elephant in the room: Titus. Lexa decided she'd deal with him later—and personally. Aden didn't need to get involved in this. "So. Tell me about your glorious tenure as Commander. Clarke tells me you've been doing exceptionally well."

"For a replacement," Aden added, cocking his head to the side as if to be sure. Lexa nodded at him to go on, and he pulled up a chair by her bedside, wringing his hands together. "It's difficult, _Heda_. The clan leaders want this, and another clan leader wants that, and meanwhile, there's a dispute in a village over some bread and meat, and..." He trailed off, contemplative. "It's stressful, _Heda_. I barely get time to spar in the pits anymore, and I fear I am incompetent as a fighter, too. It feels like everything is taking a part of me, and I do not have the time to regain—anything."

"You're overwhelmed," Lexa assessed him, briefly.

"Yes. And—and please tell me if I should stop talking," Aden said. "It's just—there are so many things I wish to say to you, _Heda_ , and—"

"Don't stop," Lexa told him. "I find you soothing, Aden. Your mind has always been one I've been fond of. Say whatever you want to. I..." She shook her head. "Sometimes I speak too much and it is too much exertion. So tell me stories, Aden. And look at you," she added, somewhat proudly. "Look at how you've grown."

"I have?"

"You won't notice. But your shoulders are broader; you sit tighter; you are more confident, not in me but in yourself. And that's important."

"I remember. You told me once." Aden smiled brightly at her, pleased with her assessment. He was never one to be cocky; he was a good egg. There had never been anything too _much_ with him. He was not the most well-read of the class, nor was he the best fighter, the speediest, or the most agile. He was average—but Lexa found he had the biggest heart of them all. And perhaps that was why he'd won her over so quickly. He was not naturally intelligent, but he was eager to learn. He was not an excellent fighter, but he would spar in the pits whether it was raining, or too hot, or too cold. He was the first there and the last there. The tenacity of his spirit would be rewarded—Lexa was sure she'd see to it.

"Go on then," Lexa teased him. "Who cut your hair? It looks good."

"Bessie," he said, and the tips of his ears burned. "She said I looked handsome with a neater, shorter cut."

"She's right. So...Bessie?"

"She's two years older than me, _Heda_ ," Aden said quickly. "And Madden said that she had kissed him twice behind the art-house. He teased me about it, actually," he added, a little crestfallen. "He's three years older than _me_. So I think she must prefer older men."

"Madden is not a _man_. He's a boy."

"So am I!"

"There you go."

They spoke idly of crushes and food and haircuts and fights—there was one story Aden was so reluctant to tell that Lexa practically had to pull it out of him—and it made her near-cackle at the childishness of it. But it made her grateful too. Aden still had the glimmer of youth and optimism in his bright eyes; he was mature and he'd have made decisions in her wake that she wouldn't dream of putting on his shoulders. Yet despite all of that, he'd decided to pick a fight with _Indra_ in the sparring pits just to impress pretty Bessie. He'd been beaten roughly ten to twelve times before Indra had muttered into the ear she _hadn't_ bashed that maybe it was enough. But he'd kept going for more, and by the time Indra was finished with him, he was bleeding from nearly every orifice.

Sadly, it hadn't worked.

By the time Aden left, with an ample basket of cheeses, bread, fruit and some of the best snacks from the Polisian stalls in the Square, Lexa found herself grinning.

Boys.

 

* * *

 

"You," Clarke was disgruntled, and Lexa tried to placate her by rubbing her arm. Clarke shrugged her off. "You are one piece of work. I told you: gentle exercise! That does not mean sparring with Indra!"

"It was gentle sparring," Lexa defended herself meekly, as Clarke redid her stitches. It hadn't been a big thing, and not all of the stitches had been ripped open. They'd mostly healed, to be honest—and it wasn't only until Indra had noticed speckles of blood on her tunic that they'd stopped the session. They'd only been lightly sparring, finding Lexa's feet on the ground again.

It had felt good, to breathe fresh air, to see Indra's face light up in relief, to feel the mud squelch beneath her boots. It felt good to just be _doing_ something.

Clarke's fingers traced over the stitches, and covered it with a bandage and surgical tape she'd attained from her medical bag of wonders. "Doctor's orders," she reprimanded, mock-seriously. "You're not allowed to spar with Indra for a week."

"A week?!"

"Five days," Clarke bargained, knowing she'd won when she pressed a lingering kiss to Lexa's lips. Lexa closed her eyes, relishing the way she tasted. She tasted of earth, and laughter, and life.

"I thought you said a week," Lexa murmured against her lips, kissing her again, briefly.

"Two days for bedrest," Clarke said. She pampered Lexa's pillows, and gently pushed her down. Lexa was ready for the milky potion until Clarke clambered on top, both legs straddling her sides, and her eyes widened. "With me."

"Are you sure?" Lexa asked, for once, thinking about the stitches.

"Are you?"

Lexa didn't need telling twice. With one arm supporting herself as she leant up, she kissed Clarke fully on the mouth, cherishing how she tasted. Every fibre of her body told her to slow down, but she hadn't kissed Clarke in so long. Hungrily, she deepened the kiss, coaxing Clarke's mouth open with a low moan as her tongue delved inside. Clarke's hands fisted into her hair as Lexa's teeth nipped on her bottom lip, drawing out another moan from Clarke as she supported herself up with her arm.

"Lie down," Clarke whispered.

"Clarke..."

"Lie. Down."

Lexa sank against her pillows, her eyes blown wide open by Clarke sitting on her. She could see where Clarke's line of vision drew to—the red sash Aden had returned earlier. With a cheeky grin, she took it from the headboard and played around with it, raising her eyebrow at Lexa. "Do you trust me?"

"I've missed you," Lexa pled, her hand reaching out to palm Clarke's breast. Clarke closed her eyes. Lexa was a heady, intoxicating mixture of pleasure and irresistibility. "I've missed..."

"I know what you've missed," Clarke said lowly. "You haven't given me a chance to tell you what _I've_ missed."

"Okay." Lexa eyed the sash. "What have you missed?"

"This."

Clarke made quick work of tying Lexa's hands against the rails of the headboard, smirking at her half-hearted struggles. A ping in her heart told her she was doing it just so Lexa didn't exert herself too much. The overpowering part of her heart told her she just wanted to capture every essence of Lexa's body, every curve, every crook, with her lips. Just like Lexa had. Lexa had worshipped her like a Goddess, her lips kissing and sucking of reverence. And tonight, Clarke would do the same.

She bent down to kiss her again, hard. Their teeth clashed as Lexa startled, quickly settling into the rhythm of the kiss. It was desperate, almost brutal as Clarke bit down hard on Lexa's lip, feeling Lexa's groan all the way down to the ache between her legs.

"You," Clarke panted against Lexa's lips, "are a piece of work."

"You are a piece of art," Lexa whispered back.

Clarke smothered her smile with another kiss, rapidly moving down the side of her neck, biting and sucking her way down to her collarbones. With a pair of medical scissors on the desk, she cut apart Lexa's tunic despite her protests and tossed it to one side, taking a moment to stare at her. She was scarred and bruised—but she was so, so beautiful. She was, from Clarke's point of view, flawless. Every scar was a raised mark of beauty, and just as Lexa loved to relish Clarke's breasts, Clarke did the same, her lips enclosing around a nipple as her fingernails raked up the sides of Lexa's body.

Lexa arched up from the bed, craving more contact as Clarke sucked on her nipple, and licking in a swirling circle as her eyes danced back up to meet Lexa's. It was almost ravenous, the way Lexa looked at her, her eyes hooded and dark in desire. She imagined it was somewhat of a mirror. Clarke grinned rakishly at her as she nibbled, eliciting another one of those moans she'd longed to hear. One of those moans she'd imagined in the back of her mind as she slid a hand under her pants, the nights Lexa were unconscious, and she'd just wanted to—

" _Jok_..." Lexa was breathless as Clarke licked a trail down her navel, her fingernails digging into skin. Lexa loved it when she did that; she loved the brief burn of pain and the erotic sensation of pleasure afterwards. She loved watching Clarke's messy blonde hair move downwards as she spread Lexa's legs, feeling the sticky wetness, for her, all for her, even as they'd rushed this like two eager bitches in heat.

Lexa rocked against her as Clarke nipped at the inside of her thigh, careful to hold her in position in case she injured herself. Steadying Lexa with both hands, she slowly licked Lexa's clit with the flat of her tongue, enjoying the long and almost torturous moan Lexa let out. It was near torture for _Clarke_ , seeing Lexa wanting to writhe and feeling it in her hands and trying to stop it for fear of ripping her stitches out. But Clarke's desire felt like an unrelenting storm, and she kissed her clit and then sucked hard on it, groaning as Lexa cried out, bucking her hips uncontrollably. Clarke gripped tightly onto Lexa's side as one hand failed to resist and she coaxed a finger inside, feeling Lexa clench for her.

It felt like it had been so long since they'd been rolling around in bed, enjoying each other, feasting on each other without a worry in the world. It felt like forever since Clarke had last traced Lexa's tattoos, and the peaceful kiss they'd shared upon wakening. Everything since had been a horror story, but Clarke was determined to fuck Lexa so hard that she'd forget _everything_.

She slid another finger in, pumping fast and hard as Lexa bucked into her face, her mouth still in a determined 'O' shape as she sucked on her clit. It was overwhelming for Lexa as she shuddered, feeling every muscle in her body spasm at the mere _sight_ of Clarke staring hungrily up at her as her mouth gorged on her cunt, animalistic and desperate. It was a mix of sharp jabs of pain in her abdomen and an immense tidal wave of pleasure as Clarke curled her fingers inside her. Lexa tossed her head backwards, exposing her neck, and she could feel Clarke clamber up her body again, her fingers still sliding in and out of her.

"Come for me," Clarke whispered in Lexa's ear, her mouth still sticky with Lexa's juices. She kissed a wet trail down the side of her neck and then Lexa yanked her by the head, pulling her up so her mouth was hot and heavy against her ear. Lexa nipped at her earlobe and then she was coming, hard and fast, cursing heavily as she bucked against Clarke's hand. It had been quick and hard and fast—and Clarke could feel the heat pool in the bottom of her belly as Lexa came loudly in her ear, panting and panting and panting—

"Fuck," Clarke groaned, the ache between her legs growing even more as she watched Lexa's head loll back in pleasure. She could already feel Lexa's hand straining down Clarke's body, but she stilled it, near-torturing herself.

"Takes as long as it takes," Clarke told her matter-of-factly, knowing that an orgasm wasn't (quite) worth Lexa pulling out her stitches again. Breathlessly, Lexa laughed at the reference and sank back against the pillows, making room for Clarke's naked, sweaty body pressed against hers.

"Will you replace my tunic?" Lexa murmured, pulling up the covers so they could huddle in each other's warmth.

"Don't see the need," Clarke replied cheekily, snuggling into her. Her hands roamed Lexa's enticing skin, and if she could get drunk off sheer desire, she was far gone. Lexa smiled lazily, pressing a soft kiss to Clarke's lips, then to the tip of her nose, and then to both her eyelids.

" _Reshop_ , Clarke," Lexa murmured dozily, her hand raking through Clarke's hair.

Clarke's eyes fluttered shut at the soothing sensation, nestling her head against the crook below Lexa's chin. " _Reshop, Heda_."


	7. The Throne Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So the only NEW one is chapter 5, which is Lexa and Aden.)
> 
> This was previously a one-shot too, set directly after however series 3 ended. I think it was in Polis?

Clarke trudged up the familiar steps to the Polisian throne, in all its jagged, imperfect glory. It had never been comfortable to sit on, and she supposed that was why Lexa's posture was always so pristine. This was surely the end. The radiation would hit them in—

Fuck it. She didn't know how long. And frankly, for one moment, she didn't care.

They'd left her alone at the top of the tower, to clear the bodies from the halls and all the way down. Murphy had been awkwardly comforting, even uttering a goodbye as he left. It was as if he had something to say but he wasn't sure if appropriate. Clarke knew who'd been in that room aside from them. Him and Titus.

Still, she thanked Murphy for keeping her alive in the City of Light, and he left dutifully to help the others. For keeping her alive. Not quite everyone.

There wasn't a word to describe the clench in her chest when she thought about it. This wasn't how her mother had explained it to her earlier—how it had robbed Jaha of any memory of Wells. No, Clarke could remember everything. She could remember the shuddering first steps in a foreign world like she was starting all over again. She could feel the kick of every trench-coated man beating her down on the stairs. She could hear the blood thundering in her ears as Lexa leapt into view, swords flying about like a bloody windmill. She could still feel her heart squeeze in relief, in bafflement, in amazement—in _love_ —and it couldn't have been real, but oh, it so _was_.

The soft windfall of rain as it pelted down on top of their heads; the strange distortion of day and night. The bright forest green of Lexa's eyes, and that all-too-perfect warpaint that simply meant something wasn't _quite_ right, but Clarke would take it. The touch of her skin, too smooth, but Clarke would take it. The perfect, unmarked armour Lexa wore, as if she'd never gone into battle before, but Clarke would take that too.

They were minor things. But the gentility of Lexa's caress and the familiar taste of her lips—they were real. The ache in her heart as Lexa charged into certain death for her with nothing but a rushed "I love you"—that...that was real, too.

Clarke sat down on the steps. It'd be wrong to sit on the throne. It was Lexa's, after all, and it should've been Aden's one day. Except too much had happened, and their people once more had fucked it up too badly. She didn't want to venture down the tower and see the crucifixions on glorious display. She didn't particularly want to leave this room, to be honest.

There was no room for sentimental comments like "the room still smelled like her" because it didn't. It smelled like grounder and Skaikru blood—blood you could differentiate from, because no matter how hard she'd tried, they'd always be Grounder and Sky People. Alright, so they'd united towards the end—sort of—but earth seemed like a constant battle. One that Clarke would never win. Or one that Clarke would never help her people win, and get instant hatred for it. A twitch of a smile teased her mouth. _How very Lexa of me_. She'd fight until the end, even though there really was no end.

How curious, to strive for peace when the vision she had—Lexa had—of it was truly unattainable. Sustained peace over such a long period of time...It'd never happen. She wondered how Lexa stayed so optimistic about it all the time, yet so sombrely pensive too. And maybe it wasn't optimism. Maybe Lexa knew, too, and it was in her black blood to fight for the impossible.

No red cloaks, no candles lit, no strewn artbooks...

There was nothing in this room to remember Lexa by, except for her memories. Clarke rummaged around in her jacket pocket to fish out the chip, and stared blankly at it for a moment. _This may be the stupidest thing I've ever heard. The woman I love is inside this chip._ But maybe that wasn't so bad after all. Not the chip—but the memories. Clarke didn't have the energy to make it to Lexa's quarters, where their short-lived moment of rolling around and giggling into Lexa's luxurious furs felt like a lifetime ago. Clarke's hands closed around the chip, and it was a placebo effect—of course it was, she wasn't stupid—but she closed her eyes too, and thought of Lexa's long, tender fingers stroking up her side. She thought of Lexa's eyes, staring deep into hers as if she couldn't believe all this had happened. She could remember Lexa's kiss, feel Lexa's touch, and if that was all she had to go by for eternity—then maybe she'd just have to.

She could remember them lazing about. Lexa's eyelids had drooped in contentment, a crooked, half-assed smile on her face as her fingernails scraped up Clarke's bum. Clarke had shuddered, laughing at her idiocy and had mumbled something about horses. Something about Octavia. And Lexa had only said, "It's not like I'm going anywhere, Clarke."

 _Oh, but you're going to the City of Light_.

Clarke kept her eyes closed, the smile that had subconsciously spread across her face returning to its usual, set, grim line. Life was more than just surviving, but surely life meant time, and Clarke hadn't _had_ that with Lexa. They'd barely had—it felt like five seconds, sometimes, and other times, it felt like an eternity—anything before they were robbed by a horrible mistake and everyone suffered for it.

Nobody acknowledged it, though. Not once had they mentioned that the fuck-up had been due to naive Ontari and the all-powerful ALIE. Not once had anyone except Murphy acknowledged the slaughter of the young Nightbloods in their sleep. Clarke had the nature of thinking they _did_ care, but death seemed too cheap these days. The Grounder massacre at Hakeldama had yet to be properly answered for. The bloodbath here in Polis. The slaughter of Lexa's would-be successors. It was almost like they—her _people_ —thought nothing of it anymore.

Squeezing her eyes shut, even tighter, she remembered Lexa's impassioned speech as she pitched _blood must not have blood_ to her stubborn-set ambassadors. It had been radical and too sudden an upheaval. Clarke knew this. But what else could she have bargained, to save the lives of her own within Arkadia?

Was—

She didn't want to ask. _Was it even worth it_?

In Lexa's speech there had been glimpses of the legendary Commander everyone spoke so reverently about. A true revolutionary; a peacemaker but a fighter. An all-out altruist. A faithful 'head over heart'. Except the one time—the one time she'd indulged in some selfishness, and that selfishness was simply _happiness_ for herself—it had gotten her killed.

_Because I—_

If she muted the sounds out, she could still see the blare of sunlight filtering through Lexa's window. The beauty of her softly-curled hair, falling over a shoulder as they prepared to say goodbye. The surprising tear that had dropped from her eyes as they kissed; the heavy quiver of her lips, of a Commander who wasn't ready to say goodbye to her heart again.

_That's why you're you._

And she knew it was as real as the Lexa who'd saved her in the City of Light; the Lexa who'd sacrificed herself so Clarke could access the door. The Lexa who strode over to Jasper and walloped him in the face simply because he was in the way.

She knew because yes, her skin was a little too smooth, and not weathered enough. The warpaint bore no smudges. The armour was unblemished.

But every way she would reach out for Clarke, the way she supported her down the steps. The garbage she spoke. The slightly-satisfied smirk as she'd defeated all those trench-coats. Her mouth, delicate as a petal, urgent, urgent, urgent...

 _I love you_. It had been rushed. _I'll always be with you_. Clarke's eyes fluttered open and she glanced at the chip in her hand, and wondered if that was true. Technologically, yes, right?

Yet she found not much solace in that. She embraced the sight of Lexa's unoccupied, hopefully never re-occupied, throne. She would visit Lexa's quarters and she would smell her furs as she slept, soaking in every last drop of Lexa's Polis before everything, presumably, would go to shit. She would keep her unfinished drawing of Lexa sleeping, with no intent of finishing it. It was detailed enough, and she didn't want to add anything that hadn't been there. And she had caught Lexa's face. Peaceful, youthful, at ease...

She'd remember the short-lived sprinkling of happiness they shared. In a way, Clarke scolded herself for taking so long—but she needed to heal, and Lexa had given her that space, knowing she'd needed it. Clarke knew deep wounds healed slowly, and surely Lexa knew that too. It would've been a waste to plunge straight into lust and let the mess spiral from there. It was _better_ this way, better they'd been cheated than to not have anything at all.

That was fucked up and a half. Clarke wasn't like the others, though. There wasn't much she could wish for anymore. Memories of a person's—of a love's—touch would fade, but not in her lifetime. She glimpsed over towards the throne again, pieces of wood sticking out from all ends like it was a comfortable seat at all. It was a wonder how sanctified it was. And atop it for her lifetime and—she'd ensure it—would always be Lexa kom Trikru, snug on her ragged logs.

It was Lexa's throne, and anybody else's chair. It was peace and change. It was the true spirit of the Commander, for no-one could sit upon it quite like Lexa. _I'll always be with you_ , Lexa had said. Clarke pocketed the chip—the flame—whatever she was going to call it, and smiled mildly at nothing. _Maybe I'm the one who's always stuck with **you**_.

Yeah. Maybe.

But if time was what they had been robbed of, then Clarke would make sure their eternity was sacred. _Fleimkepa_. She could do that, until her last breath. And she'd hope to see the tenacious forest in those eyes when the time came.


	8. Polis

"Impossible." Anya took one look at the site before them, and laughed. "You're insane."

"I'm the Commander."

 

* * *

 

When Lexa kom Trikru, perhaps the smallest of the Nightbloods, staggered from the woods in the pitch-black night, stunned silence fell upon the murmuring and cheering crowd. In front of tens and hundreds of seasoned warriors, village chiefs, Seconds, healers, tutors...Lexa tripped over her aching feet. She registered no pain as she slammed against the marshy ground, her eyes drooping as one side of her face rested against the coolness of the forest-floor mud.

Black blood had dried on her arms, drenched her hands, and stained her tunic. Her sword had been abandoned a few feet away from her, and her right hand was loosely holding her dagger—her usual weapon of choice.

Lexa was best when it came to close combat. In round three, big Leeviu had wielded a spear, and Lexa had nearly found herself impaled. Hand-to-hand combat, speed, agility, intelligence and stamina were her strengths—but stamina failed her tonight as she practically collapsed in front of everyone.

Her mind blanked as she thought: _I killed my friends tonight_. Was this what a Commander had to do? Kill a friend? Kill multiple friends? Kill _all_ of them until you were the last one standing? Lexa barely had any breath to consider how sick that was.

The _Fleimkepa,_ a bald man marked ritually with every Nightbloods' black blood over his head and face, was the first to reach out, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Lexa kom Trikru," he said shakily, loud enough so everyone could hear. "Do you remain the last of the Nightblood trials?"

They all knew of the draws. It had been publicly displayed so everyone was ensured no cheating had been allowed. Lexa, exhausted, fished a braid from her pocket. Tied around the braid was the signature ribbon of Perie of the Stone Clan, a lean and tall girl who'd wielded two short-swords and was quick as lightning. Lexa breathed into the earth, embracing Trikru forestry—the world that had birthed her—and briefly knew that she would be hauled into a very new place very soon. So she closed her eyes and smelled the mud; smelled her home. She had the trees for bones and Trikru determination pulsating in her veins. Tiredly, she slid the braid over towards Titus, who picked it up and examined it.

" _Jok_ ," she heard her tutor, Anya, whisper as she raced over. Titus held out a stern arm for her to stand back, but Anya resisted. "Lexa—can you hear me?"

Everything sounded so muffled, but Anya's voice was clear as day. "I killed," she said blankly.

She could not see the disbelieving crowd gathered around her, but she felt their shock emanate from them. She felt the same.

"Let it be," Titus declared when the Stone Commander confirmed that it was indeed Perie's braid. "This night we honour Oliss the Tender's tragic death and we crown a new Nightblood as our _Heda_. The Nightblood trials have been fair and lengthily discussed. Tonight, in the forest and the black blood spilled in sacrifice for our First Commander and saviour of the old world, creator of the new, we crown Lexa kom Trikru our _Heda_." Titus knelt before her, and Lexa didn't move a muscle. She could feel his ice-cold forefinger dab at her still-bleeding upper arm slash-wound, a gift from the fourth round.

Lexa felt like she was going to _die_. Painfully slowly, he took the bowl of water prepared for him by one of the Seconds and washed his face. Clear of black blood, he smeared Lexa's over his forehead in some sort of symbol, and stood up.

" _Heda_ ," he pronounced. "Our _Heda_!"

Lexa groaned in pain, drowned out by the loud cheers of the night crowd. She did not listen to them. The only thing she could hear was deathly silence from Anya.

 

* * *

 

"Impossibility is a pessimistic outlook on life, Anya," Lexa said as she examined the ruins of her chosen city. Commanders had ruled from the crumbling Polisian tower, but the rest of the place was a complete mess. People scarcely lived here unless they had no choice at all. Mostly, they lived within their villages in specified clan territories. It had only been chosen as the Commander's seat because of its association with Becca. Lexa did not understand why the Commander had to rule in the midst of nothing, revelling in the utmost luxury whilst people died of starvation literally just beyond the walls of the Polisian Tower. Why had none of the previous Commanders _done_ anything? "Watch me: by the time I am finished with Polis, I will build a throne constructed by the Trikru craftsmen themselves. There will be candles to represent the ever-lasting light of the Commanders gone, and the top of the Polisian tower will be marked by the grandest of all, as a sign of hope. Polis is our light; our beacon."

"You've gone mad," Anya assessed. "I can't believe _I_ trained you, and you turned out like this."

"Wise and promising?"

"Mad!"

Lexa chuckled, and Anya snuck a sideways glance at her, silent pride blossoming in her chest. Lexa had just turned fourteen, but she fitted into her snug, lightweight black Commander suit like she had been born into it. Whenever she attended formal meetings and was fitted with armour and the Commander's red sash, she looked a miracle. Every time she swept into the room she held power over older, more experienced figures; she spoke articulately in every single meeting, and cleverly too. She spoke as if she had been Commander for decades.

Allying clans had been one thing. Lexa still had some Commanders to meet. But pitching _this_ idea—especially to strong-headed chiefs such as Bryce of the Water People and Dain of the Mountain People—had been a struggle. The idea of turning a ruin into a well-functioning, civilised city was outrageous. Yet the Commander's seat was within the Polisian tower. Legend had it that Becca, the First Commander, ruled from that very tower. And so Lexa had argued: why leave Becca's location of reign as a ruin? Should a Commander rule from high-walled civilisation, or should a Commander rule surrounded by slums, prostitutes and drunken scum?

The meeting was as brutal as the way Lexa swiftly and graciously took down every single question. It was like a fight, with each clan leader approaching the arena one-by-one. When the meeting finished, Titus, their Flamekeeper, was stunned by the unanimous agreement of Lexa's plans. He'd disapproved of the "dreamer's capital" like every other clan leader—but he could not make a move as Lexa passed the motion due to the unanimous vote in her favour.

"It isn't far from Trikru territory," Anya said thoughtfully.

"It is the First Commander's revered seat—and all Commanders before her," Lexa said. "It is a wonder how no Commander thought of this solution."

"It isn't far from Trikru territory," Anya repeated, folding her arms.

Lexa swivelled, her hands clasped behind her back. Anya knew that look on her face. The way Lexa's lips quirked lopsidedly, well-trained to suppress her smile. "How very observant of you, Anya."

"How are you such a smart-ass _nomonjoka_ at fourteen?"

"I learned from the very best."

 

* * *

 

Indra, chief of TonDC, had been drafted to Polis to lead the construction team of the wall. Lexa wanted it built first. It had to be high, thick and grand. She drew blueprints of a portcullis, and made sure that a wall-work was a necessity—she wanted to walk along these walls someday and look over her creation. They would be crenulated so the merlons would provide archers with necessary protection should their one-day almighty capital came under siege.

Lexa supposed, realistically, it _would_ —and she already had the scheming Queen Nia of the Ice Nation in mind. She ruled over one clan, but they had the largest territory and population. Their disadvantage was that if she succeeded in her coalition, every single clan would be a stopping point in their army's march down; her ace up the sleeve was pulling Nia into the coalition herself.

But enough about Nia. Lexa was sick of thinking about her, and her nation's empty threats. Instead, she surveyed as Indra barked orders towards the construction team. One team had been assigned the task of the drawbridge, which they initially constructed on the plains with wood "fresh from Trikru", Indra had announced proudly.

The rest of them were busy with exact measurements of the merlons up above. The wall had long been constructed. It was _huge_ , and impressively thick. It had taken months and months of work, and Lexa knew Indra had been away from her village for a very long time. She struggled to think of how to reward her.

"I am sorry this extracts you from your chiefdom duties," Lexa told her truthfully as they walked around the walls, just the two of them. "To be frank, I trust very few people to exact the important jobs properly."

"I will do as my _Heda_ commands," Indra said. "If you shall take me away from TonDC for years to fight a war, I will do so. Where you go, I follow. Where you need me, I hope to advise."

"Thank you, Indra."

"Thank _you_ , _Heda_."

Lexa smiled at her, and clapped her on the back. She was close to Indra—but their relationship was not like hers and Anya's. She could not deck Indra in the face and vice versa. It was formal— _too_ formal—but after years of knowing her, Lexa knew it was simply Indra's way of behaving. And Lexa respected that. She never wished for Indra to change because of her, or change only in front of her—so Lexa adjusted accordingly to everyone she met. _She_ was the Commander. She was the change. Not Indra. Not Anya. Not Gustus.

"It should not be long now, _Heda_ ," Indra told her. "The walls have been built. They need brushing up, but they are as thick as you wanted them. There are few merlons left to complete, and of course we need to work on the portcullis to the exact configurations. But..." Indra and Lexa stopped walking to examine the sheer _height_ of the impressive structure, and though Indra did not smile, Lexa could feel pride radiate from her. "Polis will be impenetrable."

 "That's what I hope," Lexa said good-naturedly. "I will not have Becca's seat seized by some folly."

"It won't. But we are working on the outside." Indra hesitated, but Lexa waved her on. Any opinion was welcome—even the less favourable ones. Titus had spoken of his disapproval of the capital since day one, though Lexa had suspected he'd thawed at the idea of getting his own chamber within the Tower. "Are you not concerned about what lies inside these walls? Polis is a poor place. It is unsanitary and barely a city, let alone a place to live."

"That's what I will have to change," Lexa murmured. "I'll have to _make_ it a capital."

"Do you mind sharing your plans, _Heda_?"

"Well...I require manpower," Lexa said flatly. "And I require heavy belief."

 

* * *

 

"It's a simple enough conversion," Konner, Lexa's chief cartographer, explained. "This used to be a storage facility—a massive pantry, if you will—but it is only a matter of cleaning the walls, cleaning the stone floor, and clearing everything out. You do not need tasked men for this, _Heda_. You only need a few days of strength."

"There will be no design quirks?" Lexa asked, a little disappointed.

Konner smiled at her. "Well, I have never been to an _art-house_ , and nor have I ever sketched blueprints for one. I do not know what an art-house looks like."

"Neither do I."

"You...requested this, _Heda_ —"

"I'm building blind," Lexa confessed as they strolled through the seemingly never-ending food storage facility. It must have been for oats and potatoes and the sort. It did not feel chilly here. "There are designs a city must have. Refurbishment of the Tower is already under place. The wall is up. The longer I look, the more I see of them as battlements. I'm not building a city, Konner. I never was. I'm building battlements. I'm building a strong-hold. A fort."

"Is it so unwise to do so? Years and years of fighting won't just _stop_. With a new Commander they may even flare up even more frequently. Building a fort to protect the Commander's blessed seat is not exactly an act of war and nor is it an outsider worry."

"Mm."

Lexa trusted Konner. He had been distrusted by _everyone_. Originating from the North, Konner was born _Azgeda_ and had escaped home when he was just a boy. Taken in by an unknowing tree family, his trouble with Trikru dialect and tufty red hair singled him out as an orphan of the North. But Konner had been thrown away by his adopted family to a newly ascended Commander of the Trikru: Lexa. She saw two words: _Azgeda_ and orphan. She said, firmly, that the latter was of much more importance.

Konner had travelled everywhere with Lexa ever since. Every war they'd waged, Konner was the cartographer every night as he mapped out the enemy terrain for Lexa, risking his life in the darkness. Nobody would know of his death unless he failed to return. But he did, every morning.

Every morning, he would debrief Lexa, improve his sketches and doze off. And every morning, Konner became more of a confidante to Lexa—who'd endured a whole day's worth of briefings, meetings and uproars—in his absence.

"You've built your sparring pits," Konner noted. "The Polisian Tower, arguably the most important building in this project, is near-completion. Why add this?"

"Because Polis is far from finished. We will build houses. We will build inns and blacksmith workshops and healer facilities and prayer houses and book houses. Lastly, you will customise your own house with endless reach of our coalition's pooled funding." Konner opened his mouth to dispute this, but Lexa stopped him. "Your wife is new is she not? And are you not with child? I don't want you living a half-life in some village that barely recognises you for your work and your loyalty. Polis _will_ be great, Konner. Believe me—and then live in my city."

"I _do_ believe you. By the spirits, you are building an _art-house_!" Konner exclaimed. "But I cannot use your kindness so. I _thank_ you, _Heda,_ because I would not want to live anywhere you are not—but—"

"But what? You have been an essential part of assembling this coalition. You have been a friend. I have never rewarded you in coin; only a bed to sleep in and food for your three meals of the day. Now I must reward you properly."

" _Heda,_ your kindness is—"

"It isn't kindness." Lexa's eyes were soft as Konner knelt before her, his head bowed. He was going to reject her, but Lexa knew of his village. They could kill him the instant he was weak, and with a new babe coming, that was unfair. At least in Polis, Konner's security would not be in question. "It's an order."

Konner genuinely didn't know what to say. "An order? For me to live in Polis?"

"Yes."

The silence Konner emitted was a 'yes'—or so Lexa took it. Bemused and baffled acceptance. He slowly rose to his feet, his eyes scanning the massive storage space. Polis would need a larger one. He'd already seen Lexa's submitted plans for housing and it was beyond belief. There would also have to be a Square constructed close to the Tower where the stall-sellers and fortune-readers could set their future up. That made sense. The Polisian Tower's additions made sense. The throne room. The Commander's chambers. The Flamekeeper's chambers. The guard's rooms. Guest rooms. The Nightbloods' shared sleeping hall. The sparring pit made sense. Everything made sense—except for this absurd art-house.

"Why art?" Konner mused aloud. Lexa shrugged beside him. "I cannot think of a clan known for its art. I mean, the Sun clan perhaps for its notorious luxury and flamboyance, but that does not make them artists."

"It is nothing to do with the clans," Lexa said shortly. She could feel her stomach twist as she spoke of it, tightening. _I can see it in the stars_ , she wanted to tell him, but she could not confide even in Konner about that. She imagined the ceiling of the art-house painted with the night sky and glittering with stars, and closed her eyes. "All citizens will be civilised. All Warriors will read; they shall speak Old English; they shall plan and plot as well as they fight. Perhaps they shall take up art too."

"And if they don't?"

"Then they will find another hobby. I don't know, Konner. Our soldiers should not just be blank-minded hulks of muscle."

"You're accompanying everyone too much. Less than half of this city will be able to read. Fewer will have any medical knowledge. Fewer will be able to draw anything other than obscenities."

"But that's exactly what Polis is: _too much_."

"If you do not mind my boldness, _Heda_ , but... _you_ are too much," Konner laughed, and Lexa hit him good-naturedly, smiling. "You speak of so many things."

"They were impossibilities once, were they not?"

"I remember it being said, yes."

"Look at us now," Lexa said proudly, as they stood in the middle of a near pitch-black ex-storage house. "We're building the realm's first-ever house of art."

 

* * *

 

Lexa had been examining the throne for about ten minutes now. Every curve of twisted, polished wood sticking out and the jagged imperfection of it was exactly what she'd wanted. If her new home was Polis then the throne she would sit upon would be constructed, polished and designed by Trikru hands. Lexa's hands marvelled over the throne. "I don't want regal," she'd said to the construction team, "I want powerful and I want uneasiness." It hadn't been an easy blueprint— _words_ , that was—but...

She sat down on the throne, her posture perfect as always. Her arms rested on the sleek sides of the chair, and she closed her eyes. _Now_ she truly felt like the Commander.

The double-doors pushed open and Anya, startled by the room's decor, took two steps and then abruptly stopped. " _Whoa_ ," she breathed, letting out a low whistle. She dared at Lexa, decked out in her full uniform complete with the sash, sat atop her ethereal throne as the window behind her basked her in sunlight. For the very first time, Anya strode up to her and felt comfortable and kneeling before her and bowing her head. " _Heda_."

"What do you think?" Lexa asked her smugly, when she hopped down the mini-steps and helped Anya to her feet. "Still impossibility?"

"I've seen the new houses," Anya said. "You're using the space well. The Square, I'm sure, will look great post-construction. But..." Anya smiled at her, and she felt pride swell in her chest. She'd had Seconds before—some had lasted mere _days_ —but there was none quite like Lexa. She'd taken the slum village the starved population had created for themselves and re-housed every single one of them and their families. "I'm sorry I doubted you."

"Sincerely?"

" _Very_ sincerely."

Perhaps there was a childish light in Lexa that couldn't help but be switched on whenever she pleased her once-mentor. They both glanced around the throne room. The carpet beneath them was crimson-red, and Lexa dreamt of the Nightbloods she'd teach here. She'd already scribbled down notes for their first lesson. The room at the very top would be used for clan meetings, and held every prospective leader's ornate, hopeful seats—should she accomplish her mission of a twelve-clan coalition.

Yesterday she had returned to her home village within Trikru territory to celebrate her name day. It had been a modest feast, and villagers frequently apologised for the lack of grandeur. But for her big ambitions here and the fancy art and book houses, she relished the smell of the trees and the feel of the long-growing grass between her fingers again. Home was home, and the feast had not been modest. It had been rich with love for the Commander, and the Sun clan readily supplied wine and luxurious desserts Lexa brought with her for the Trikru villagers to try.

"I don't know how you look so fresh," Anya remarked. "I nearly didn't make it to Polis at the sheer thought of having to bend over and vomit."

Lexa grimaced at the mental image. "I drink responsibly."

"You _bore_. It was your name day!" Anya laughed, and clapped her amiably on the back.

"We will have breweries," Lexa decided. "I spoke with the Sun Commander and she said it is not difficult. We have already started brewing mead for our new inns; we will brew Polisian wine, and it will become a staple of our capital."

"I think your capital's already made quite the statement," Anya chuckled, "but I'm not objecting to you brewing wine."

"Finally: something you motion through straightaway."

"It _is_ wine."

"Does it even count?" Lexa reconsidered good-naturedly.

Anya grinned at her and took a step back. Lexa was sixteen now. She was still too young for all of this, but she had accomplished everything a legendary warrior had. She'd pulled most of the clans into her coalition and Anya imagined she had simply charmed their socks off. Lexa had one clan left: the Ice Nation.

She promised she'd heeded all of Anya's warnings. She would wait—months, if it had to be—before reaching out to Nia. Anya knew she was distracted by that Costia girl of hers anyway, the herbalist's daughter, who'd automatically been given one of the biggest stalls in the Square. Anya near rolled her eyes. Lexa was never subtle about matters of the heart.

But she could not help but see the change Lexa had made. In spits and spats, she had barely seen Lexa in two years. And now, standing before her, was a once-skinny, now-lithe, tall girl of sixteen. She had lost her baby-fat and her jaw-line was strong, as were her determined eyes, and she held herself straight at a posture that practically said "POWER". Her stringy arms were slim and muscular, her body toned and fit rather than just thin. But more so than that, upon taking on this impossible task, she'd calmed a raging war, forged a coalition and Anya exhaled with sheer pride. It felt like she was witnessing the maturing of her child into adulthood.

"Sit on the throne," Anya said quietly.

"Excuse me?"

Anya repeated herself, a little louder.

Lexa strolled easily across the room, and Anya noted-she had _swagger_ about her now—and skipped up the steps. Swivelling on the spot, she sat ram-rod straight on the throne, resting both arms. Her fingers curled around the edges of the chair-arms. Lexa looked like a painting. A glorious one. Decked out in her lightweight armour and topped off with the sash, the only thing missing was her war-paint—but they weren't at war anymore. Lexa sat in uneasy silence, waiting for her mentor to say something. But Anya didn't. She couldn't get the words out. Seeing her ex-Second shine of power, confidence and—she _was_ the Flame—Anya hadn't felt she'd earned it in the trials, but now?

"You are my _Heda_ ," Anya marvelled faintly, shaking her head in disbelief. "You..."

"You are my Anya," Lexa returned.

Anya's heart clenched and she chuckled softly. Her new Second was Tris, and she was proving to be a fine warrior. But Anya knew a person could strike gold only once in their life, and she had struck gold with Lexa. Her feet tugged her towards the throne, and she slowly moved up the steps and knelt directly before Lexa's seat. Taking Lexa's right hand, she kissed every knuckle.

"Lexa kom Trikru," Anya whispered. "I am honoured by your presence."

"As I am yours," Lexa said quietly, "General of the Trigedakru."

"I will fight for you, always," Anya vowed, though she'd vowed similarly as she took the role of General. This, however, was entirely unscripted. Lexa's heart slammed against her ribcage as Anya rested her forehead against her knuckles. "I will make your peace in areas that need them. I will defend you and I will give you my life."

It _had_ to be Anya to rob the first vows within the throne room. Lexa slid off her throne and knelt before Anya too, and held her hand. She tilted Anya's chin up. Any closer and they'd kiss (Lexa tried not to think of how _weird_ that was) and Lexa nodded.

"As long as I bleed black and true, I will give you my blessing as my General to perform my military duties for me within the Trikru," Lexa said firmly. She had been away from her people—the trees and the earth and the woods—for too long. They needed someone like Anya to lead their army—not Lexa, who was too far away. "You taught me the ways of a warrior."

"And now you are Commander."

"Who will teach me that?" Lexa asked, frowning. "As you were my mentor, would you--?"

"No." Anya didn't even have to think twice. "You would need a wise council for that. Not myself."

"Anya, I trust you and you only with my life...I cannot take tutelage from anyone else—"

"Yes, you can, and you _will_. You must."

"Anya—"

"I will assemble your council. Believe me, if I thought I could stay on and tutor you, I would—but I cannot. I have given you everything I know. There are those who know much more than myself." Anya smiled at her. "You have always been a bright child. People already attach the word 'revolutionary' to your name."

"I want to spend my days in Polis advised by _you_."

"You and I know I have duties back with the Trikru," Anya said. "Trust me."

"I do trust you."

"Look at you."

Anya was never one for motherly pride—but as she gripped Lexa by her slim, toned arms, she could not help but admire the intricate delicacy of her outfit. It screamed ' _Heda_ '. Lexa was sixteen, and if she was Anya's daughter, she would not be able to give Lexa up at such a tender age to such a savage job of overseeing the Grounders. But Lexa did not have those parents to give up. Surprising both herself and Lexa, she pulled Lexa in for a tight embrace and closed her eyes as Lexa instantly stopped resisting and hugged her back as if she had been waiting her entire life for this moment.

" _Ste yuj_ , Lexa," Anya whispered in her ear.

Lexa smiled. " _Ste yuj,_ Anya."

 

* * *

 

Polis was near-completion with the exception of a few more houses. That, she trusted Konner with. Urgent news had summoned them to Trikru territory—back home—as Anya and Indra reported in their letters of hostile land theft. Lexa had told Gustus to take his time in the stables saddling the horses as she climbed the walls, nodding at her Chief City Guard, and for the very first time, looked over her city.

Her fingers traced over the wall-walk and the top of the merlons, and she felt Trikru sweat and exhaustion penetrate her system. She watched the candle burn atop the Polisian tower: a beacon of hope and light for all those lost in the darkness. She heard laughter and boisterous singing below, an indicator that the inn was swinging in full-action. She had been birthed from the trees and raised by the forest, but she'd placed her heart and soul into making Polis everything she'd promised it to be.

" _Heda_ ," Gustus called up, and Lexa leaned over the gap between the merlons and peered down at him. He waved up at her. "The horses are ready."

"I wish you could join me up here," Lexa shouted back down at him. "This view..."

"We are running low on time, _Heda_ ," Gustus said regrettably. " _Heda_ , I beg your company when we return, and we will watch over this city at sundown."

Lexa grinned down at him. "Let's go home, Gustus."

 

* * *

 

Gustus never got to see the views of Polis from the wall-walk.

 

* * *

  

> _"You should come with me to the capital. Polis will change the way you think about us."_
> 
> _"You already have."_

Lexa stared blankly at the spot she'd reserved for Clarke. She rested her torch in a sconce and sat with her knees drawn to her chest. A surprising number of people had participated in submitting their works of art to the art-house, and it looked basic but beautiful that way. Yet there was always one empty space, and Lexa wondered if would remain empty forever.

She had reserved a spot and a tin of pastels, charcoal and chalk for Clarke. It rested just beneath the reserved space, and it was all Lexa could think about.

Tonight she had watched families reunited with their husbands, sons, wives, mothers—it had been the blessed day of giving, so folklore now said, for war had returned their soldiers safe and sound to those who prayed. Lives had been lost, but to witness the majority fall back had been a wonder itself.

Lexa knew tomorrow would bring whispers of the Mountain slayer. Indra had already relayed the news to her, and in Polis, news spread like a disease. She knew from tomorrow onwards, she would have to fight to prove her strength; she would have to think of a long-term strategy to ensure her position on the throne.

Briefly, she didn't want it anymore. All Commandership had brought her was _hurt_. It had broken her heart—twice, now. Seeing weeping families reunited with their loved ones was a strong reminder of why this crusade was so important. Lexa knew that if she was to be seen as weak or strong by her people, it mattered neither way—so long as her people were safe, then she had done her duty. So long as her people were _happy_ , she had done her duty. But selfishly, it had crept up on her. The idea of love. The idea of that co-existing with her duty. The idea that one day, Clarke would come to Polis and Lexa would be able to kiss her again, to taste the stars and the skies she'd dreamt of since she was a little girl, once more. She had allowed weakness to seep into her soul. She thought of Clarke and she thought of watching the sun set with her by her beloved wall-walk. She longed to introduce Clarke to her new class of Nightbloods, particularly Aden, who had proven himself to be promising and strong.

Mostly, Lexa thought as she gazed hollowly at the brick wall before her with a crass 'KLARK' scrawled over it, she wished she could see Clarke's drawings again. Here. In Polis. She had left her soul here; she wanted Clarke to carve right into it. She wanted Clarke's world and the way she saw it and drew it marking her from the inside, just like her Ascension day back markings and her clan affiliation. Except they were on flesh.

 _Wanheda_ , Indra reported back to her. The Commander of Death. Indra had told her the filtered down story of what Clarke had done that day, and Lexa hoped with all her might it hadn't been true. All Indra could say beyond that was that the Mountain People were a threat no longer.

Lexa knew what would ensue. She had hoped political games—especially ones including Clarke—would stop after they took the Mountain. She had hoped she would storm the Mountain and bloodily avenge her People and rescue them—with Clarke. But when Emerson had crawled up to her, smirking like he'd already won (and he had) with a deal that was impossible to refuse, Lexa felt her hope fade away. She would win all of her warriors back, but she would lose the heart she'd tentatively passed to Clarke the day prior. She reunite soldiers and families, but not even Polis' big, burning beacon of hope could rescue her from the haunting visions that flashed before her, of Clarke's tearful eyes, and the pleading tremor in her voice.

Indra would find her in the same spot tomorrow, staring at the same space, her eyes hollowed out in fatigue and heartache. And Lexa kom Trikru would fight.

 

* * *

 

"I draw you with your class of Nightbloods," Clarke said, smiling at Lexa. "We just...me and Titus...we just observed that day. And you were so different. You—you had this fun gentle loving bit of cheek, and I just...It was the first picture that came to me, so vibrantly. So I drew it."

Lexa stared, mouth nearly falling open, at Clarke's drawing. It covered the entire space and it was as if she had taken a snap-shot and put it on the wall of Lexa's art-house. Clarke, smudged with charcoal and pastel and all sorts over her plain tunic, grinned proudly at her.

"It's beautiful," Lexa said without realising. "It's..."

"...You," Clarke finished for her.

Lexa turned to look at her, and found she had absolutely nothing to say. It seemed so long ago now, that Roan had found the realm's _Wanheda_. It seemed an age ago she'd killed Nia; that she'd introduced Clarke to Aden. It seemed like a lifetime ago Titus had accidentally shot her, and she'd woken, parched and witness to Clarke's flowing tears. She shed them whilst she was unconscious and she shed them as she woke up. "There was no winning with her," Aden had told Lexa exasperatedly.

She internalised her laugh, and reached over to hold Clarke's hand.

"I will never leave you," she promised lowly.

Clarke bit her lip. "You could've promised me that before you got shot. We can't predict everything in life, Lexa."

"No, we can't."

"We can't give up our obligations to our people. You definitely can't. It's not like we can just run."

"No. We can't."

"Will you stop with those repetitive answers?"

"Sorry," Lexa apologised, holding her hands up. "I just can't stop thinking."

"About what?"

"This."

Lexa took Clarke's cheeks with both hands of hers and kissed her gently, her lower lip gently tugging on Clarke's for permission. Coaxing her mouth open, she slipped her tongue into Clarke's mouth, eliciting a quiet moan from her. She would kiss Clarke forever; here; on the wall-walk; in their bedroom. She would hold Clarke forever. She would love Clarke forever. Lexa eagerly deepened their kiss, aware of the hot, shooting pain in her abdomen—and wincing as it poked at her. Leaning in for another kiss, she found Clarke's head moving back slightly as she watched Lexa out of concern.

"Slowly," Clarke told her. She squeezed Lexa's hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

Lexa nodded. "Neither am I. My soul is in Polis; my heart is with you. Where am I to go?"

Clarke smiled, and rested her forehead against Lexa's. Sometimes, she was an idiot. Most of the time, Clarke enjoyed falling in love with her over and over again.


End file.
